Homesick
by silence89
Summary: Angsty GSR. Spoilers possible through the current episode. Mentions of rape and abuse, though no explicit descriptions. Sequel to Rough Night but you don't need to have read it all will be explained here in time. COMPLETE.
1. Happy

Title: Homesick

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I don't own CSI, or anything relating to it.

A/N: I'd like this story to improve as it goes. Tell me what I am doing wrong, and I will be grateful.

As he drove to the latest crime scene, Gil Grissom felt great.

It had been a good day, a really good day. He had tried a challenging new recipe after shift the night before, and it had turned out perfectly. He had gone into the office in the early afternoon, and actually completed his paperwork, so he could go into the field without guilt. He had convinced a new lab tech to donate blood for a new experiment, and he had received an invitation to a new entomological conference.

He was sure his roaches would win this time.

Sara was back on duty tonight, too, after a couple of nights off. That, he decided, was definitely a mixed blessing. He sighed.

Things had always been complicated between them, but lately he'd been more confused than ever. She'd opened up to him after her suspension, and he'd been stunned by the primal need to _protect_ that had surged through him as she talked. Sara had never needed his protection.

Or maybe she always had, and had never had it. Either way, she wouldn't take kindly to his starting now.

After all, everything she had confessed to him that day was, to her, old news. It just didn't feel that way to him.

She'd referred to their attraction lightly, in passing. As a symptom of a larger problem. She'd done it twice. It had crushed him, and terrified him.

Sara had the right to move on. He'd given her no reason to wait. She had the right to be happy. He wanted her to be happy. _I just wanted her to be happy with _me, _is all._

Her words that night, and earlier in his office, had frightened him. Just as she was finally opening her heart to him, trusting him with her problems, she was closing the door to a relationship. _I'm too late._

Well, he'd decided it wouldn't be too late. He wouldn't let it be.

He'd be there for her, re-build their friendship, and test the waters. If there was any hope at all of having a relationship with her, he was ready to try. Or he thought he was ready. Maybe.

_And then I screwed it up. Again._

Quite what he'd done wrong, he wasn't sure. Catherine could no doubt explain it to him, but she was heading up her own shift now, and things were different between them. She wasn't likely to invade his personal life to help him patch things up with Sara.

Sara had snapped out of her funk, whatever the cause, and he was cheered. She smiled as she worked, and she worked hard and well. He even thought they were beginning to get their old rhythm back.

He'd found himself looking forward to work more than ever, longing to see her quick smile as her mind made connections and she raced to impress him.

And then he saw her, out with that guy. That jerk. That _kid._

_The "kid" was at least Sara's age, _he told himself. _She should be with someone her own age. It's better this way._

_So why did he look too young for her? _

Well, he wanted Sara to be happy. She had the right to be happy. This guy made her happier than he'd seen her in years, from what he'd seen that night. He'd never heard her laugh like that, ever. So he was happy for her.

He hadn't called her in on her night off. He had left her alone, to be happy without him.

_I am happy for her_, he told himself as he pulled up to the scene. _I am._


	2. Bad Moon Rising

Grissom parked his car and approached the crime scene tape, stopping to greet Brass and get some details.

"Jim. What've we got?"

"Looks like a hit. Two to the head, small caliber. No ID on the vic. Some college kids found him. They were out hiking, figured they'd camp out in the desert tonight. Lucky for us they found the body _before_ dinner."

Grissom smirked, but Brass was right. The visceral reaction civilians often experienced when confronted with death could compromise important evidence, if their aim was unfortunate.

He ducked under the tape and approached the body, eyes scanning for footprints, fibers, anything probative.

The victim was wearing a grey suit, not new but not threadbare either. Average. There was a bullet hole in his third eye and a second wound in his chest, but surprisingly little blood or brain matter surrounding the body. Grissom snapped photos, recording the scene automatically.

"Hey, Grissom. What've we got?" It was Sara, crossing the tape with Greg and David Phillips at her heels.

He didn't look at her, didn't want to see her glowing from her days off. Days she'd traded from Greg without saying why. Days she'd spent with _him_.

Ignoring his silence, she began to examine the scene. He couldn't help but watch her out of the corner of his eye. It was a warm night, but she was wearing a red turtleneck and black pants.

Somehow it was sexier than Catherine's most revealing tank tops.

_Don't. She's moved on. You have no right._ _Be a friend, let her go._

David called his attention back to the task at hand. "Lividity is unfixed. From the liver temp, I'd estimate T.O.D. at about 4 hours ago."

"The scene's still fresh. Sara, check the area for tire treads and footprints. Be very thorough." _She's always thorough, idiot. And she knows what to do at a crime scene._

"I'm on it." Her voice was pleasant, and distant.

He handed her his camera, and as she reached for it her sleeves rose, and he saw a dark bruise on her wrist.

He grabbed her hand, turning it for a better look. Brass moved closer, as if to defend Sara.

"What?" She asked.

"This is a defensive bruise." Grissom frowned at it. _Could this guy have hurt her? No, Sara knows self defense, she can look after herself. Maybe she likes it…No. I am **not** going there._

Sara's chuckle broke through his mental struggle, and he shoved aside his speculations.

"Well, you certainly know your job. It _is_ a defensive bruise. I have one to match on the other arm, want to see?" _What? Why is this funny? Why is she laughing at me?_ Even Brass looked disturbed; he was staring at Sara, apparently stunned.

"Look, I was showing a friend of mine some self-defense moves. She, uh, learned quickly."

_She. _Grissom felt his heart slow down as he was finally able to shelve speculation into Sara's sex habits. Brass continued to stare at Sara, his face expressionless. Grissom handed her the camera, and turned to Greg.

Greg was staring at the sky, looking pensive. Grissom found himself looking up as well, doing a spot check for aliens and rogue asteroids, but it was only the moon, large and nearly full, and red.

"Harvest moon," he commented.

"In April? It's a blood moon. Bad omen."

"Greg, it's not an omen. You watch too much TV. It's a normal visual effect, caused by pollen and dust in the air."

Greg still looked disturbed, and Grissom wondered when his newest CSI had become such a believer in omens. Worse, now _Brass_ was watching the moon with a wary eye.

Grissom shot Brass a questioning look. _Not you, too?_

Brass tilted his head and gave a little smile. "Hey, I'm open minded. There are more things on heaven and earth, and all that."

"Right. Let's get back to work."

He knelt towards the body, ignoring his superstitious co-workers.

But he couldn't hold back a tiny smile when he recognized what Sara was humming. _Bad Moon Rising. _

* * *

A/N: "Bad Moon Rising" is by Creedence Clearwater Revival. 


	3. Magnetic North

"It's been a long week. Can you make it to the diner? My treat."

Grissom can't help himself, his heart skips a beat when he sees that Sidle smile. He savors it, and almost misses Greg's reply.

"You're buying? And you have to ask? We are so there."

Sara nods, still smiling. Good, she's the reason for this invitation, though he knows it wouldn't be a bad idea to take his new team for breakfast more often. They need to trust each other to succeed, and eating together promotes trust. He supposes it's a primal thing.

Of course, Greg and Sara already seem to trust each other, and he hopes they trust him. _Who am I kidding? Greg trusts me. Sara trusts me. She trusts me. She hasn't been pulling away lately, it's just my imagination._

But he couldn't shake the feeling that their bond was fading. Had faded.

There was a barrier between them these days, and he knew just what it was: Sara's lover. She never mentioned him, but he could feel the change in her from fifty feet away.

For years, whenever she was near, he could feel her. He felt sure he could pinpoint her exact position in a pitch black room, as if he were a compass and she his magnetic north. _Oh, poetic, Gil. Stick to Shakespeare._

_The point, though, is that poetic or not, it has always been a two-way pull. Sometimes a tug of war. And that's changed, she's reduced it somehow. She can't erase it, though. It's as natural as gravity. _Grissom was sure he could still find her in darkness, now and for the rest of his life, but he could no longer feel her matching pull, the mental tendrils that no science could detect but that he _knew_ existed. That were all he allowed himself, when it came to Sara.

Well, he would have to show her the way back to him. Somehow.

_Trust? You aren't trying to build team trust. If you were, you'd be looking for Sophia right now, to include her. You probably should, anyway._

As if on cue, Greg asked, "Have you invited Sophia? Because I think she's been in the evidence locker most of the night, going over the Klein evidence. It's coming up on appeal."

"I was just going to look for her. Thanks for the tip."

* * *

He managed to maneuver the seating so that Sara was beside him, with Sophia and Greg on the other side of the booth. Sara smiled at him, but she didn't react to his presence. _Not the way she used to._

He was confused, waiting for the slight stiffening, the changes in her breathing he hadn't consciously noticed until they stopped.

_It can't be too late._

He watched Sara as she laughed and chatted with Greg. He felt Sophia's eyes on him, and wondered at the triangle of attraction. Could Sophia feel his response? He wasn't sure. Surely whatever she felt for him was merely physical; she barely knew him.

Perhaps it was the appeal of the anti-Ecklie.

Well, she had agreed to stay, and that was all that mattered. If flirting with co-workers was something he objected to, he and Catherine would never have become friends.

Some drunken college girls stumbled in, laughing loudly as they made their way to the counter. Sara smiled indulgently in their direction and rolled her eyes. Sophia snorted a little. It was an odd moment of communication between the women. Surely it was unimportant, a meaningless exchange of glances over a trivial moment, yet somehow Grissom knew he was missing something.

Sara asked him to pass the pepper. She was friendly and polite, as she had been for weeks. She obviously wasn't _trying_ to punish him. Was she? He searched his memory for clues, trying and failing to identify the moment she had left him.

Two of the students were leaning over the jukebox, he noticed. He didn't recognize the song that began to play, but it was obvious that Sophia did. She bobbed her head to the beat, and glanced at Sara again.

"I love this song," she said.

"Really? Me too." Sara smiled, a real smile, and Grissom wondered how many of her smiles had been false, recently.

The song continued as the team dug into their meal. Grissom listened to the lyrics. _I will not be afraid of women? What is this?_

Oddly tentative, Sophia looked at Sara. Sara met her eye for a moment, and Grissom, sitting beside her, felt her muscles relax as she gave a barely perceptible nod. The women looked away, then, and Sophia asked Greg about a DNA anomaly in her latest case. Again, Grissom knew he had missed something, a quiet but important shift.

Greg explained the intricacies of DNA cross-contamination cheerfully, in voluminous detail, as Sara and Sophia ate their pancakes.

Grissom leaned back and watched his team, feeling utterly, unreasonably alone.

* * *

A/N: The song on the jukebox is "Cool as I Am" by Dar Williams. This is not a songfic. There will not be a song in every chapter. I don't like Sophia much, but I thought it would be nice to show Sara bonding with the other woman on her shift. And it was fun to make Grissom a little jealous of Sophia.


	4. Considering the Evidence

Grissom stared at the cast-off on the wall.

He ran through his options for the tenth time, but the conclusion remained the same.

Sophia was tied up with a string of rapes just north of town. Greg was only a CSI 1, he was dealing with trick rolls and B & Es and he needed that experience. Grissom couldn't solo, because he was due in court in a few hours. It was a complicated murder and he had to be the one to explain the entomological timeline.

He was going to have to let Sara work this one. He sighed.

Well, she was going to have to learn to distance herself. He'd been telling her that for years. Sara was a brilliant investigator, but far too emotional.

_You know that's not true anymore. Not lately._

Sara's recent calm worried him almost as much as the times she did lose control.

Grissom had a crime scene to work; he approached the bed carefully, stepping around the pooled blood on the floor. He wished the paramedics had been as careful. It would be a nuisance, eliminating all these extra footprints.

"Well, it doesn't get much more open and shut, does it, Gil?"

Grissom refused to be startled. Let Brass think he had known he was there.

"Nothing is ever open and shut. We still have to analyze the evidence. She'll plead self-defense."

"The vic was in bed, asleep. Self defense could be a tough sell."

"What's a tough sell? Sorry I'm late. Hi, Jim. Grissom." Sara had arrived.

She stopped in the doorway, absorbing the scene: the bloodied bedclothes, the spatter on the wall, the smell of blood and vomit in the air. Grissom felt himself flinch. He hoped it didn't show.

Brass filled her in: "Victim is Roger Atkinson, he's still in surgery at Desert Palm, but it looks good, actually. The girlfriend, Kirsten Andersen, is in custody downstairs. You'll need to process her. She called 911, confessed to stabbing him right then. Sounded panicked. She hasn't said much since we got here."

Brass was watching Sara closely as he spoke. Grissom wondered why. Brass didn't know about her parents. They'd seemed closer lately, but it had taken Sara eight years to confide in _him_, she surely wouldn't have told Brass.

"Andersen and Atkinson? Nice."

Well, that wasn't the response he had expected. Grissom raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"It's just… funny. Never mind. I need more sleep. How do you want to do this, Griss?"

_I want to get you out of here._

"I'd like you to get shoeprints from the EMTs, and process the girlfriend."

"Wouldn't it make more sense for me to work in here? You have court, remember." _Why is she being stubborn about this?_

"Not for hours. I'd like a woman to process her, anyway."

"Fine." She turned and left the room without a backward glance. Brass watched her go, then glared at Grissom accusingly.

_What did I do now?_

* * *

Sara burst back into the bedroom in full crusader mode, Brass at her heels.

Grissom looked up. He had just finished his swabs, and was preparing to bag the sheets.

"Get anything from the girlfriend?"

"She says she did it, and she's sorry. She wants to know if he will be okay. She says she just snapped. Nothing set her off. She's lying. She's hiding something and I know what it is."

He waited.

"He was attacking her, Grissom. She has bruises everywhere, I'm sure when we pull her medical records we'll find evidence of abuse."

"I'm sure you're right, but she stabbed him in bed. Battered Woman Syndrome can be tough to present to a jury."

"No, he was attacking her tonight when she stabbed him. You should have heard her down there, she's completely remorseful. She called 911 right away, before he had time to bleed out."

"He was in bed."

"He was assaulting her. She won't admit it but it's true. 7.7 of U.S. women report having been raped by an intimate partner. 45.9 of women who reported physical abuse also reported being forced into sex by their partners. The evidence will support it. I want to take her to the hospital, run a rape kit."

Brass was staring at Sara again. _He must be used to her statistics by now. What is wrong with him lately?_

"Cite your source," he challenged teasingly.

She didn't smile.

"The 7.7 came from the National Violence Against Women Survey, Department of Justice, 2000. The 45.9 came from "Forced Sex and Intimate Partner Violence: Effects on Women's Risk and Women's Health, _Violence Against Women_, 1999. I forget the page numbers. Grissom, she stabbed him with a letter opener, right?"

He nodded.

"There are plenty of knives in the kitchen. Big, sharp, negative for blood. I found a gun in an upper cabinet. The letter opener wasn't an ideal weapon, given her options. It must have been on the bedside table. She was in bed, he assaulted her, and she grabbed the closest object. If it hadn't been such a sharp letter opener we might not be having this discussion."

"Sounds like a theory. Run with it."

Finally, she smiled. At Brass. Who was staring at the bed now, lost in thought.

"Sara?" Brass was still looking at the bed.

"Yeah, Jim?" She sounded nervous. Grissom wondered why.

"I just got _The Maltese Falcon_ on DVD. Come by my place after shift?"

"I might be busy…"

"Please? It would mean a lot to me."

"I'll be there."

Sara went back downstairs, heading for the hospital and the rape kit. Brass shuffled around for a moment, staring at the bed.

"Did I miss something?" Grissom asked. _Did you just ask Sara out? No, of course not. What is going on with you?_

"What? No. I was just… considering the evidence."


	5. Craving

Sara was late.

It wasn't like her.

She had called and apologized. She said she had overslept.

_There's a first time for everything_, thought Grissom, turning his attention to the autopsy table.

Al Robbins was explaining the cause of death, as if it weren't immediately obvious. The shotgun had removed half the man's face.

Still, it was amazing how often the cause of death turned out not to be the obvious. The man _could _have drowned, or been poisoned, or died of natural causes. Of course, that begged the question of why someone would shoot a dead man, but it happened more often than a civilian might think, at least in Vegas.

He helped Doc Robbins turn the body, looking for distinguishing marks to aid in identification. They were lucky this time. The man had an odd birthmark on his buttock, in the shape of a heart, and a tattoo of Marvin the Martian on the back of his left shoulder. _People are strange._

Sara arrived just as they settled the body onto the table again. Her hair was curly, and it made her look about twenty-five, except for the circles under her eyes. She really must have overslept. Grissom tried and failed to remember the last time she had left her hair curly at work.

"I'm so sorry, Grissom, it won't happen again."

"It's okay, Sara. I'm glad you made it."

She smiled at that, and he could see the speculation in her eyes. He was obscurely cheered. This was _his _Sara again.

"Can you take his fingerprints? He had no ID on him."

"He has no _face_." Sara looked green.

Taking a deep breath, she approached the body, print pad in hand. She looked wary, and he wondered why. The body wasn't fresh, but he wouldn't classify it as a decomp. She'd dealt with worse.

Sara's gloved hand grasped the cadaver's hand. She rolled his fingers in the ink.

Suddenly, she dropped the hand, muttering "Excuse me" as she bolted from the room.

Grissom and Robbins stared after her, puzzled.

"Well," said Robbins, "That was unexpected. There's some ginger ale in the fridge there, why don't you take her some and I'll wrap up here?"

Grissom found the ginger ale, then went down the hall to the restroom. He paused outside the door, unsure of himself. He could hear Sara inside. She was definitely sick. Perhaps that was why she had overslept.

Or not. Grissom found himself remembering his first year as a CSI in Minneapolis. He was already well adjusted to corpses, so hadn't embarrassed himself in front of his co-workers once, to their chagrin. Until they took him out on the town after his first high profile case. The next morning, he had the worst hangover of his life. It was the first and last time he vomited due to an autopsy.

_Sara told me she doesn't have a drinking problem. I believe her._

_But she did drive drunk. That's a problem._

_That was a mistake. She was barely over the limit. She'll never do it again. It doesn't mean anything._

The bathroom door swung open, and Sara emerged, looking a little red around the eyes.

"I am so sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me today. I guess I must have eaten some bad Chinese last night."

"Food poisoning works faster than that, Sara."

"True. But I don't think I have the flu, Griss. I'm fine now. It won't happen again."

"Sara, how are you doing lately?" _There. Now if there is a problem she can tell me. _

"I'm fine. Why?"

"You just threw up. You look exhausted. I'm concerned."

"I'm fine, Grissom. Embarrassed, but fine. It's out of my system. I'll go print the dead guy now." She headed back toward the morgue.

"Wait!" She turned.

"I forgot to give you this." He handed her the ginger ale.

"Thank you. That was very thoughtful." He could see laughter in her eyes. It was incredibly sexy. _What is wrong with you? The woman is sick._

He couldn't help himself. He moved closer to her, felt the warmth of her presence. She could feel it too, this time. He could tell. She was coming back to him.

"Grissom?"

"What?"

"Did you want something else?"

"Uh, no. You smell like cigarettes." _Well, she does. Maybe she _has_ been spending more time in bars lately._

"Sorry. I was smoking on the way in."

"I thought you quit."

"I did. It's a process. One step forward, two steps back."

"A process?"

"I had a craving. Why is this any of your business?" She narrowed her eyes at him. _Great. Now she's getting defensive. Change the subject, fast._

"Let me know when you run those prints through AFIS."

Sara rolled her eyes and walked away. He watched her go, running one finger down his throat lengthwise, the ASL sign for thirst, and craving.


	6. Pregnant

Grissom was going over requisition forms when he heard the knock.

Sara was leaning against his doorframe too casually, smiling her 'I'm really totally calm about this' smile.

_Uh-oh._

"Hey! Do you have a minute?"

"Of course. Take a seat." She shut the office door behind her.

She sauntered in, still faking confidence. He wondered if she knew how transparent she was at times like these. He wondered what bombshell she was planning on dropping this time.

"I got the results back on the arson case. Accelerant was propane."

"Did you run a check on recent purchases by the shop owner?"

"Greg's doing that now. I, uh, need to talk to my supervisor. That's you. So I need to talk to you." Grissom's heart was racing now.

He waited.

Sara seemed to be searching for words. Finally, she took a deep breath and plunged right to the point, as he had known she would.

"I'm pregnant."

Grissom went numb.

A burning pain began in his gut, as though she had punched him in the stomach.

_What?_

Sara was still talking, he realized, but Grissom couldn't hear a word. Her announcement had deafened him quite as effectively as otosclerosis ever had.

His mind just kept repeating her words over and over.

Sara was pregnant. It wasn't his.

For the first time in several weeks, he foundhimself remembering the afternoon he had seen them together.

* * *

_It had been weeks since Grissom had stopped at this diner. It was a dive, of course, but it was one of his favorites. The omelettes were incredible. He took a seat at the counter and waited for the waitress to notice him._

_Suddenly he heard her. Sara. Laughing out loud. He hadn't heard her laugh like that in years, but he would recognize it anywhere. It was the most beautiful sound in the world. He turned to see where she was sitting. _

_She had her back to him, but it was definitely her. She was gesturing and talking to a man Grissom did not recognize. He felt his heart grow cold. The man was young, probably Sara's age. Grissom found himself measuring him as if he were a suspect. Height: probably about 6'2", but he was seated so that could be off. Caucasian. Brown and blue. Clean-shaven. Small scar through his right eyebrow. Solid build, probably lifted weights, but puffy, as though he had recently gained some weight. Good looking, but not movie star quality. No rings._

_The waitress came then to take his order. He told her something, and it must have made sense because she moved away without comment. _

_Maybe it wasn't Sara after all. Debbie Marlin had looked like her. This could be another Debbie. Not Sara. Sara wouldn't be out with another man, because… because he was finally ready for her. He'd stood up for her to Ecklie, put his job on the line. He was just waiting until the right moment to make his move. _

_She was supposed to be waiting too. She always waited, no matter what noises she made about moving on._

_Their order was up. The waitress brought it to them. The same waitress. She smiled at them as she lowered the plates. Sara turned her head towards her, and his fantasy was crushed. This was no look-alike. It was Sara Sidle. _

_Sara had a side of bacon. Sara was a vegetarian. Without saying a word, she neatly slid the bacon onto the man's plate. At the same time, he handed her his pickle. It was perfectly choreographed, perfectly habitual. She passed him the ketchup, and they still had not spoken. _

_This was not a first date. They had a routine, a perfect little domestic routine for diners. They didn't even need to discuss it. _

_The man got up. He asked a question at the counter, and the waitress handed him a salt shaker. Grissom was barely aware of it, because Sara had turned to the side again to watch him. She didn't even see Grissom sitting 10 feet away. He saw her, though, and he saw the look in her eyes. Fascinated by his every move. Like a bird hypnotized by a snake. Like a girl in love._

_The man returned to the table, and leaned across to kiss her on the cheek. He said something, and Sara laughed out loud again. It was the most terrible sound in the world._

_He couldn't watch anymore. He was boiling with rage and betrayal. He turned to the counter to cancel his order, and realized that it had arrived. His hand was gripping his knife. He hadn't noticed. _

_Grissom threw down the knife and some money, and left the restaurant. He hadn't been back._

* * *

In the moment, in his office, Sara's mouth was still moving. He didn't watch her lips. He was trying to picture Sara with a child, and finding it all too easy. He could see her singing to it, bouncing it a little, and handing it to him. To Grissom, not this… imposter. 

"Grissom?"

He blinked. Sara was looking at him nervously. Obviously, she expected some reply. His throat was dry.

"Did you hear what I said?"

He nodded.

She sighed, and spoke again, obviously repeating herself. "I'm telling you this now because I need to make a couple of changes to the way I work. I need to be really careful with chemicals from now on, and as my supervisor I need you to help me with that.

"I don't want to tell anyone else yet. It's still early, and it's bad luck to tell people too soon."

She waited. She looked at him, searching for something in his expression. He didn't know if she'd found it, but she pushed her chair back and prepared to leave.

_Say something. You have to say something. Stop staring at her like an idiot._

Sara paused in the doorway, and then she was gone.

"Congratulations," he said.


	7. Fine

Grissom spent the next two weeks feeling as though he were moving through a thick fog.Sara was pregnant, and he couldn't wrap his mind around the implications. Would she be getting married? She wasn't wearing a ring, but that didn't mean much. She might take it off before coming in, so it that wouldn't cut her gloves as she worked. Or maybe she didn't have one. Plenty of people didn't have engagement rings. Maybe she wasn't getting married.

He wondered if she was still involved with this guy. The fact that Sara was pregnant meant that it was serious. Sara wouldn't just jump into bed with someone. Would she?

They had certainly looked serious to him that day in the diner, but recently Sara had seemed more… available. He had hoped it meant she was free again. A baby, though. If they were still together, they would try to stay that way. _A child needs a father. I should know. I won't get in the way of that. _

_But what if he's gone?_

As his mind returned again and again to the endless treadmill of possibilities, he went through the motions of doing his job. He was surprised, in a vague way, at how little it mattered that a large corner of his mind was completely absent. Crime had been commonplace lately. He could afford to sleepwalk a little.

He couldn't talk to Sara. He couldn't see her face without seeing her watching her boyfriend that day in the diner. The two of them would have left together, he knew now, they would have gone back to her place and, well, made a baby.

_They had sex. Since when are you this inhibited? They fucked, Gil. They made love, maybe. And why shouldn't she have? You have no claim on her._

It was an agonizing thought. He had been jealous of Hank. He had felt betrayed. That had been bad, but this was a thousand times worse. Hank hadn't seemed serious. She had never passed Hank the ketchup unasked. Or if she had he hadn't seen it.

She had not conceived a child with Hank.

Every day he wanted to assign her to cases in the desert, to the outskirts of the county. He wanted to banish her from his sight and his mind. He tried it, that first night, and spent the case in a panic. _What if something happened to her?_

He was confused by his own reaction. She wasn't carrying _his_ child. She wasn't visibly pregnant. She was completely capable of doing her job. His instincts were out of place, and inappropriate.

Still he kept her with him, refusing to let her solo. They drove to every scene in silence as his mind churned with questions his mouth refused to ask. He'd pretend to watch the road while she gazed at him with wounded eyes.

Sometimes he would be able to ask how she was doing. The answer was always the same.

"Fine."

When they arrived he assigned her to the perimeter, without fail. She never complained, never said one word that wasn't case-related. She kept out of his sight as much as possible, and came when she was called.

Some days her silence felt like an apology. Some days it was an accusation.

­­

* * *

After ten days Sophia came to see him in his office. She perched on his desk, forcing him to look away from his paperwork and up at her face.

"We need to talk." _Oh no, not another one._

He observed her more closely. She looked a little less serene than normal. In fact, she looked a little stressed.

"Okay," he said, inviting her to continue.

"Why don't you trust Sara?"

"What?" _What?_

"Is there some reason you think she's incompetent?"

"No."

"Then why are you supervising her like this? You only have three experienced CSIs, Grissom, including yourself. You can't take her on every case, and refuse to let her work alone."

"Did…did she complain?"

"_I'm_ complaining. I can't do it. You've cut our ability to handle cases in half, Sanders isn't good enough to shoulder the burden, and _I'm_ working my ass off because _you_ have some personal issues with Sidle. This needs to stop."

_She's right. And I can't afford to alienate her right now._

"You're right. I'm sorry. From now on things will be better."

­­

* * *

That night, he sent Sara to a B&E uptown. He almost sent Greg with her, but he really hadn't mentored Greg in a while now, so he told her shewould besolo.

She nodded, obviously surprised, and took the assignment sheet. She seemed a little hurt. _I can't do anything right._ He forced a smile, and wished her luck as she left. The surprise in her eyes stabbed at him.

He forced himself to focus on his own case, and was unsuccessful. Greg found a fiber he had missed. It was unnerving to both men.

The next night, he sent her on an assault case, while he and Greg continued their murder investigation. He was more focused this time. He only panicked a little when he heard officers calling for backup on the radio. It wasn't her scene.

The third night, Catherine had a body with bugs. Lots of bugs. She called him to look at them, and he spent the first evening in a long time actually thinking about work.

The fourth night, the whole night shift worked together: a messy drive-by. They collected bullets for hours, and his knees were aching when they got back to the lab. He wondered how Sara would manage in a few months. He supposed she'd be fine.

He passed her on her way to the locker room. He asked her how she was.

"Fine." She continued on her way, not looking back.

"Sara?"

"Yeah?" She looked exhausted, and this probably wasn't the best time, but he had passed up too many chances now, and he had to strike while the iron was hot.

"Can we… Can I buy you breakfast?"

She looked startled. She didn't answer right away, and Grissom didn't dare to look away, hoping she wouldn't reject him, knowing he deserved the rejection. She swallowed.

"Sure. That would be nice. Shall I get Greg and Sophia?"

"No."

Now she looked lost, vulnerable. It only lasted a moment.

"Let's go, then."


	8. Getting to Know You

Sara drove her own car to the restaurant, explaining that she had some errands to run this morning and it would be easier if she didn't have to return to the lab for her car. He gave her directions to Lucia's. It was a nicer place than the team usually chose. It had tablecloths.

They sat down in silence at a corner table. A moment passed. _See? We can sit in silence too,_ thought Grissom irrationally, ignoring the fact that _this_ silence was uncomfortable.

"I'm glad we're doing this," said Sara. "I wanted to talk to you. As a friend."

_Wait? What? No, you can't just spring these conversations on me outside of the lab. And this is a date, you can't call me a friend on a date. Are you trying to tell me you don't want to date me? _

"I want to give you a heads-up. I'm going to want to transfer to days after I get back from maternity leave. I know that's not for a long time, but they have a waiting list, so I thought I'd put in for it pretty soon. I just wanted you to know, before you see the request… It isn't personal, Griss. I'm not transferring away from you. I'm doing it so I can get better child care."

"Let's not talk about work."

"Oh. Okay." Sara paused, apparently confused. Grissom was irritated. It wasn't as though their relationship didn't extend beyond the lab. That was the whole problem, and he was ready to explore it now. So why wasn't she talking?

"What do you want to talk about, then?" she asked.

_Damn. We really only talk about work. Why did I say that, anyway? Because I don't want to think about her transferring. I'm an idiot._

"Well, what's new with you?" he asked.

She stared at him. She had the same expression on her face as she did when she was reconstructing a crime. This wasn't going well.

_Well, maybe that was a stupid question. Think, Gil! Make this work._

He was saved by the waiter. Grissom realized he hadn't even looked at his menu. He half-listened to Sara's order, and indicated that he would have the same. Sara was staring at him again.

The waiter was gone now, and they were still sitting in silence. _Say something._

"Catherine worked nights, with Lindsay."

"Catherine had Eddie. And she has her sister, and her mother." _So she's not getting married? And she's not with him?_

"So the father…?"

"Is in L.A." Grissom tried not to look too relieved. It was obviously not an ideal situation for Sara, after all.

"I'm from that area." _There. I'm sharing personal information. Good job, Gil._

"I know." _Right. Of course you do. Say something else, fast._

"Are you still smoking?" _What was that? Why did you say that? She's going to think you're criticizing her. She looks mad. Why did you ask that?_

"No." _She's angry. Smooth things over._

"I don't want you to transfer."

There was another silence.

"Grissom, what are we doing here?"

_Good question. Right to the point. _

"Talking. Getting to know each other again."

"Getting to know each other?"

"My favorite color is red." _Especially when you wear it._

Sara looked as though she was holding back a laugh. She took a long sip of her water.

"Mine is blue." She was willing to play along, at least.

"I used to surf, in California."

"I've done it. My sister was into it and she let me borrow her board a couple times."

"You've never mentioned her." _Am I crossing the line, here?_

"Well, she wasn't really my sister. Just temporary, you know? I have a real brother, but… I haven't seen him in a long time."

Grissom didn't want to ask about that directly, so he continued the conversation, keeping it light.

"I don't have any siblings. It's a relationship that's always interested me, though. I mean, the parent-child bond is pretty obvious and instinctive, but siblings can turn out so differently. Most of our neighbors had pretty big families, and I always felt a little left out."

Sara nodded. "I think it's a case of 'the grass is always greener.' You didn't have anyone to tease you or steal your stuff. On the other hand, it's nice to know someone has your back."

Grissom was more relaxed now. This seemed to be pretty safe territory after all, and at least Sara wasn't clinging to monosyllables. He didn't have much to add, though, without bringing up parents, and he definitely wanted to avoid that.

"I had a cat," he said. "She scratched me a lot. Does that count?"

Sara laughed softly. "Sure, that counts. What was her name?"

"It's a secret."

"Okay." Sara's smile faded and she looked at her plate. Grissom found he had a sudden heavy weight in his stomach.

He'd been joking, teasing her to get her to push him, and he was stunned at her rapid withdrawal. Had he really damaged their friendship that much? _She really thinks I'm not willing to share something that trivial?_ _What have I done to us?_

"Schrödinger." Sara looked back up at him.

"My cat's name was Schrödinger," he repeated.

"How old were you when you named the cat?" Sara was smiling again.

"Eleven."

"Smart kid, reading that stuff."

"I bet you were, too. I bet this little one will be."

Sara looked startled, but not displeased. She probably hadn't thought he'd bring it up again. She took another sip of water, trying to hide her surprise.

He continued, talking to fill this next conversational void, "Intelligence is pretty heritable, and you're brilliant, so the kid should be too. This guy, whoever, he wouldn't have to be a rocket scientist. You have enough to go around."

Sara choked on her water, just managing not to spit it out.

"How do you do that?" She asked.

"What?" _Why did I do that? I'm not usually the one who over-talks! She must think I'm an idiot._

"Thank you for the compliment. Tim is, though." _Tim. That's a stupid name. And I don't want to talk about him._

"Tim is what?"

"An aerospace engineer." _A rocket scientist. _Grissom felt a surge of jealousy again, hearing about this "Tim." And it had been easier when he could think the man stupid. Suddenly, though, he noticed the sparkle in Sara's eye. She was trying not to laugh, and Grissom suddenly understood the joke.

"Got it in one, huh?"

"Gil Grissom, psychic extraordinaire."

The food came then, and Grissom was a bit startled to realize that he had ordered cooked spinach and cold fruit salad. He looked at Sara.

"Don't blame me," she said, "you ordered it. _I'm _trying to get more iron in my diet."

He laughed again, and relaxed. As long as she was teasing him, he knew, it would all work out alright.


	9. Nothing Left To Say

Grissom was in ballistics. He listened to Archie's description of the type of gun used in the drive-by, and was surprised at how well he could focus on the case.

He would have thought he would be more distracted, that he would be reviewing his meal with Sara in his head, visualizing her smile as he told her entomological anecdotes. _Yes, that went really well. She likes my bug stories! And it hasn't distracted me at all._

_Okay, so I'm distracted. _But it was odd: the more Grissom allowed his mind to relax and wander back to Sara, the easier it was to pick up on the nuances of Archie's report.

_Maybe the energy spent resisting a thought is greater than the energy required to think it? There should be a way to test that. Maybe if I could get hold of an MRI…_

"Grissom?"

Sara's voice cut through his reverie. She was leaning in the entryway of Ballistics, looking tense. _Why does she like doorways so much? I'll have to ask her,_ he mused.

"I need you." _She needs me!_

Grissom looked at Sara more closely, and his good mood evaporated.

Her posture was tense, her face pale and drawn, and her eyes- he'd never seen so much white around the iris. It took him a moment to interpret this evidence: Sara was terrified.

"Archie, I'll talk to you later." Grissom left the ballistics lab and followed Sara into the hallway.

"What happened? What's the matter?"

"I need to go to the hospital. Now. Can you take me? Please?"

_Hospital? Is someone hur-_

_Oh. Oh._

"The baby?"

"Please, Grissom?" He nodded and they walked briskly to the parking lot. Sara kept her hands folded protectively over her still-flat stomach.

Grissom pulled out of the lot too fast, inciting honks from angry drivers. Sara didn't seem to notice. She was sitting stiffly, staring at her stomach. Her lips moved a little silently, but he couldn't read them with his eyes on the road. He wondered if she was praying.

His hands were clammy on the steering wheel, and his heart was racing

"Sara? Should we call ahead?"

"I already talked to my doctor, she's letting them know." Sara's voice was soft and distracted. She didn't look up.

Grissom's mind was buzzing. He wanted to say something, anything, to comfort her- but what was there to say? The only practical help he could provide, he was providing. He tried to remember what he knew about pregnancy and its complications, but his panic made it hard to think. Was Sara in danger?

He took one hand off the wheel and gently touched her leg. She moved it away, and he returned his hand to the wheel, trying not to be hurt.

Grissom wondered when Desert Palm had moved so far from the lab. This drive was endless.

Sara shifted in her seat. She inhaled slowly, held it, and exhaled. _She's in pain._ Grissom drove a little faster.

"Can I do anything to help?"

"You are."

"Anything else? Can I call someone for you?"

"No." She didn't seem to want to talk, so he lapsed back into silence. He tried to evaluate her as he drove. She didn't seem to be going into shock. His mouth was dry.

They were pulling up to the hospital now. Grissom drove to the emergency room entrance. He got out of the car and went around it to help Sara, but she was already letting herself out.

"Thanks for the ride." It was a dismissal.

"I'm not leaving," he said.

"This is a tow zone." She walked away from him into the emergency room.

Grissom sighed. Sara was right: he'd have to re-park. He did so as fast as he could, and hurried into the E.R., but Sara was nowhere in sight. He approached nursing station anxiously.

"I'm here with Sara Sidle. Where is she?"

"Are you a relation?" The woman looked efficiently sympathetic, her manicured hands poised on her keyboard. Grissom was sure that wasn't necessary. He had only taken a few minutes to park; this woman could surely remember Sara for that long. And if she couldn't, should she really be in a position of responsibility like this? _Calm down_, he told himself.

"A friend. Please?" Hospitals were strict about giving health information to non-relatives, Grissom knew, but emergency rooms were less so. And if this woman denied him access to Sara, he would use his LVPD identification.

It wasn't necessary. The woman tapped some buttons on her computer, frowned, nodded, and finally looked back up at Grissom.

"Follow me, she's back this way."

She led him down the hall. Grissom wanted to be comforted by the too-familiar chaos of the E.R., but it was apparently a quiet night in Vegas. Grissom felt his heart hammering against his ribs. At least if he had a heart attack he was already at the hospital.

The woman stopped at a curtained area, peeked in, and then pulled it back to allow him access.

Sara was sitting up against the raised back of the bed. There were a few small beads of sweat at her hairline, and her eyes were still wide and afraid. Her jaw was tight: not stubborn or angry but stoically clenched. Grissom marveled, not for the first time, at Sara's ability to reveal emotion with her jaw. _I wonder if she can control it. Probably not. She wouldn't be a good poker player. _

A nurse was taking blood from Sara's arm. Grissom wondered what they were testing for, but he didn't ask: Sara might think he was viewing this as a science experiment. The nurse finished and straightened, and Sara looked up and saw Grissom.

Her eyes changed, somehow. They flashed with gratitude, and then resentment, and gratitude again. For the first time Grissom began to have doubts about his welcome here. He wasn't the father of this baby. He had nothing to do with this. He should leave.

But Sara was in pain, she was afraid, and he couldn't walk away, whether she wanted him there or not.

He took her hand, and squeezed it. After a moment she returned the pressure. He would take that as permission to stay.

The nurse spoke, "The doctor will be with you in just a minute, honey, and I'll be back to start an IV and get you something for the cramps. My name is Barbara, if you need anything else." She gave Grissom a reassuring smile. Her nurse's uniform was adorned with teddy bears and balloons, and not for the first time Grissom made a mental note to find some sociological studies of uniforms.

_Why is she calling Sara "honey?" She doesn't even know her. And why is she smiling at _me_? I'm not the one who needs it. _

Sara thanked the nurse quietly, and the woman left.

There was a hard plastic chair in the corner. Grissom released Sara's hand and retrieved it, placing it beside the bed. Sara had returned her hand to her abdomen. A tear rolled down her cheek, and Grissom felt his heart stop pounding. In fact, he felt it stop beating.

The tear was still glistening on her cheek, she hadn't yet moved to wipe it away, and Grissom reached out a hand to do so. As his finger stroked her cheek, his heart began to beat again, too fast. Sara pulled her head away. _Okay, no touching. _

Grissom didn't know what to do. Sara hadn't said anything, and he didn't know what to say to her. She didn't want him to touch her. He sat in the chair, tension making his back muscles harder than the plastic.

The curtain swung open again, and a young woman entered in a lab coat.

"Ms. Sidle? I'm Dr. Garettson. I'm going to need to examine you now." She paused, and sent a quick, questioning glance in Grissom's direction. Grissom waited.

Sara looked at him, "Grissom, could you step outside?"

He got up and left the room, drawing the curtain closed behind him. He had half-expected to feel relieved, now that he wasn't forced to find some way to comfort Sara, and he _did_ feel relieved, a little. Mostly, though, he had to control the urge to burst back through the curtain to Sara's side. Where he had no right. Where he belonged.

_What's happening in there? Will she lose the baby? Will she be okay, physically? Mentally?_ _Can Sara handle a loss like that? Why are they so calm about all this? She's obviously bleeding, or she wouldn't have known anything was wrong. She could be losing too much blood. She could go into shock. She could die. That doctor didn't seem hurried at all. Shouldn't they be doing something to save the baby? It could be an ectopic pregnancy, couldn't it? She could die. _

The wait was endless. Grissom strolled up and down the little hallway, trying to look confident, as though his heart had not sunk to the bottom of his stomach the moment Sara was out of sight.

That nurse, Barbara, returned and entered Sara's "room."

Something was beeping. Was it coming from Sara's room? Was something going wrong? _Wait. No. My cell phone._

He answered the phone.

"Grissom."

"Grissom? It's Greg. I was just wondering where you were. Hodges IDed that paint, the car was a Toyota, '95 to '98-"

"Greg, I'm out of the lab tonight. Sophia's in charge, take your findings to her."

"I just talked to Sophia. I don't think she knows she's in charge."

"Well, tell her."

"Where are you? And where is Sara?"

"Out of the lab. Get back to work." Grissom hung up the phone. Curiosity was a quality to be encouraged in an investigator, but he didn't have to explain himself to Greg. He had no idea what to say, anyway. He couldn't bring himself to explain where he was and why.

Sara probably wouldn't want him to, either. Wasn't this the real reason women didn't announce their pregnancies in the early months? Sara wasn't superstitious.

The doctor was leaving now, writing something on her clipboard. Grissom moved closer, ready to intercept her for information.

As he prepared to speak, though, the curtain opened again and the nurse emerged. Grissom could see Sara. She now had a large pitcher of water and an IV in her arm, and she was crying quietly.

He went to her.

She looked at him, and he wished he'd never learned to read Sara's eyes. They were full of anguish.

"What did they say?"

"They, uh, have to do an ultrasound. To see."

_See what?_

For the thousandth time since he'd met her, Sara Sidle answered his question unasked.

"If there's a heartbeat." There was something else in her eyes now. Just a hint, but Grissom found himself sinking into the chair, unable to stand the weight of Sara's hope.

* * *

Grissom waited. 

Again.

Still.

Sara had polished off the pitcher of water, and when he had been confused by her thirst she had explained that she needed a full bladder for a clear ultrasound. An orderly had come and taken her away. How long did an ultrasound take? He had never seen one done, not on a living person.

He counted the tiles in the ceiling.

He wanted a drink. He wanted a cigarette, but he didn't smoke, hadn't for years, and anyway he couldn't move. He couldn't miss Sara when she came back.

He waited.

­­­

* * *

When Sara came back she wasn't crying. 

She didn't say anything.

She looked like the mothers of victims, coming out of the morgue.

She looked bereft.

_Bereft, _thought Grissom, _Bereave: To leave desolate or alone; To take (something necessary or valuable), typically by force._

The nurse was back, asking if she was in pain. Sara said she was fine.Barbara gave her a shot anyway. Grissom wasn't sure what it was. She patted Sara's shoulder before turning to Grissom.

"We're going to keep her here for a while, just for observation. We'll let nature take its course." Sara winced. The woman continued, "We'll probably let her go in a few hours, and she should make an appointment for a follow-up with her own doctor, to make sure there are no complications. You can help us monitor her here, if you're up to it."

Grissom nodded.

"If the pain gets worse, or there's any significant change, get a nurse." _That's it? You're not going to do anything for her? What kind of hospital is this? Fix this!_

Barbara ignored his glare and turned back to Sara. "I'll be right here if you need anything, honey." And then she was gone, and they were alone again.

Sara stared at the sheet on the bed. Her face twisted, and Grissom thought she would cry, but she only shut her eyes and leaned back. When she opened them again, her face was a mask.

"It's dead," she said simply. Her voice was overflowing with pain yet somehow utterly devoid of expression.

Grissom blinked. He swallowed. He didn't hold her. He knew she wouldn't allow it.

He felt utterly powerless. There was nothing he could do. He couldn't fix this. He couldn't take her pain. He wanted to.

"I'm sorry, Sara." There was nothing else to say.

"It's not your fault." For a moment Grissom nodded, accepting this as the standard remark it sounded like, and then an oddity in her inflection struck him. He looked at her and froze. _Oh God. She thinks this is her fault. She's blaming herself. _

"Sara, this is not your fault. You didn't do anything wrong."

She didn't answer.

"Sometimes this just happens. You're a scientist, you know that."

Still no reply. _Is she even hearing me?_

"How far along are…How many weeks?" _I won't use the past tense. Not yet._

"Almost twelve." _Almost out of the dangerous period. But she knows how common miscarriage is in the first trimester. She knows it isn't her fault._

"You didn't do anything wrong, Sara. Sometimes…" But there was nothing left to say.


	10. Not Good Enough

Grissom had never been so tired in his life.

He knew that only a few hours ago he had been happily reviewing his meal with Sara, and his most pressing concern was how soon he could safely ask her out again.

Subjectively, though, a thousand years had passed since Sara had appeared in the doorway of the ballistics lab.

A thousand years of agony as he watched Sara suffer, as he was unable to do more than repeat endless platitudes.

It was ironic; Gil Grissom, the man with a quote for every occasion, couldn't think of one damn thing she might want to hear. He couldn't touch her, or hold her, or console her with his body. He couldn't heal her.

He couldn't save her baby.

He could only wait with her uselessly, wishing she would cry.

If anyone ever asked him to describe his concept of hell, he would think of this night.

Blinking wearily, he focused his eyes on the road. Sara was still far too quiet: she had responded only to direct questions during their hours in the hospital, and she hadn't cried since returning from the ultrasound. Now she was leaning her head against the side window of the car, staring blankly out the windshield. He reminded himself again to give her time, but her composure was making him very nervous. Surely someone as emotional as Sara should have let go by now?

She was still dry eyed and silent when they pulled into her parking lot.

He turned off the engine and unfastened his seatbelt. She didn't get out, didn't even move her head. _She hasn't even noticed we're not moving,_ he realized. Grissom got out and walked to Sara's side of the car, then realized his mistake. He couldn't just open her door, she was leaning on it. He didn't want to tap on the glass, that would be too abrupt.

As he stood there hesitating, Sara blinked and shook her head a little, as if trying to wake herself. She looked to her left, and realized Grissom's seat was empty. She looked right, and jumped a little. Grissom gripped the door handle and stepped back as he opened it for her.

"Thanks," she said, and Grissom thought: _flat affect_._ Not good._

Then: _Gil, what do you expect? Of course she's not doing well. Give her time._

As they entered the building, she headed for the stairs. He took her arm and steered her to the elevator. She allowed his hand to rest on her upper arm as they rode up, but pulled away as the doors opened and strode away from him toward her apartment. He followed.

She fumbled with the lock, and he realized her hands were shaking. He took the key from her hand and unlocked the door. She entered first, flipping on the light switch and walking directly to her living room. She looked around, as if confused again, then turned and stared at him. Her face was white, and she had dark circles around her eyes.

Grissom leaned against her counter, still unsure of what she needed. Well, _he_ could use a stiff drink. Sara probably could too, but it might not be a good idea. _I'll make her some tea._ He turned to go into the kitchen. In the living room, Sara sank into a chair. She looked exhausted. Empty. Broken. _Don't think like that. She's strong. She'll be okay._

There was a book on the counter, next to the stove. He glanced at the title. _Vegetarian Pregnancy: The Definitive Nutritional Guide to Having a Healthy Baby. _Grissom lost all interest in the tea, but he didn't know what else to do, so he began to fill the kettle anyway.

_Where can I put that bookso she won't have to see it?_

He glanced back at the living room. Sara was still sitting in the chair. She was staring in his direction, but he was sure she wasn't really seeing him. Quickly, he shoved the book into the nearest drawer, resolving to retrieve it before he left and remove it from the apartment.

He set the kettle on the stove, and looked for the knob. Sara began to sob in the living room. It was a quiet sound, but piercing. He turned, the kettle forgotten. She was curled in the chair, as she had been the last time he had been with her in her apartment as she cried. The comparison didn't comfort him.

Suddenly, Grissom's precise mind threw out the memory of someone else sobbing, long ago. He was five years old, sitting on the stairs, and his mother was crying loudly, painfully. Gil had never heard an adult cry like that before in his life, right out loud where anyone could hear, and he didn't understand, didn't realize that his father was gone, that life would never be the same.

His motherwould haveheld her grief inif she had known he could hear her, cried silently to protect him, he knew that now, but she had never understood how well sound carried in their old uncarpeted house. Sara was restraining herself, probably because of him, but he felt five years old again and utterly helpless.

He was in the living room before he stopped to think, stooping to take Sara into his arms. For a moment he held her, and still he wasn't thinking about his actions, only the need to offer comfort, to ease her pain, and then the moment passed and he realized that Sara wasn't accepting his embrace, she was stiffening and pulling back.

She was angry.

She was pushing him away now, forcing him back as she stood. Time seemed to slow and he could see every eyelash wet with tears, the quick inhalation of breath, her pupils constricting and her lips thinning.

He took a step backwards, his arms slowly dropping back to his sides.

"I'd like you to leave." Her voice was quiet, deadly. Grissom felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

"No, Sara."

"Please leave." Her voice was harder now.

"No." But he took another step backwards.

"What are you _doing _here? Why are you doing this?"

"I… want to help."

"I don't want your help. Go home, Grissom." She sounded cruel. Sara had never sounded cruel.

"I can't."

"And why not?" She was almost hissing at him now. Grissom was confused and off-balance. He gave the only answer he could think of.

"Because the only thing worse than knowing you're hurting is knowing that you're hurting and I'm not there."

Sara's eyes flashed.

"What the _hell_ is wrong with you, Grissom? Why are you doing this now? I don't want you here. You can play your games some other time." Sara's voice was rising, hysteria creeping in.

_Games?_ Her tears were flowing again, hot and angry, and she didn't seem to notice.

"Sara, I never meant to hurt you."

"Yeah, well you know, that's what Tim always said. And it's _not good enough._" She was yelling now. "Get. Out."

She took another step forward, eyes blazing with anger. Grissom stepped back.

"Sara…"

"Out, Grissom! Leave me alone!" She was breathing quickly now, crying, and Grissom hesitated for a moment, wanting to go to her, afraid to force her.

He turned and left the apartment.


	11. Revelation

Grissom left the apartment in a daze, Sara's words ringing in his ears.

_She told me to get out. What did I do wrong? _

His feet carried him to his car without conscious direction.

_I only wanted to help. Why is she so angry at me? I never meant to hurt her. _

_Wait. What did she say?_

Sara's words echoed in his head again.

_I said I'd never meant to hurt her, and she said "That's what Tim always said." _

Something in that remark was rubbing at the edges of his mind, reminding him of… what? Grissom knew this feeling. He had it often when he was working a case, just before all the pieces came together. He tried to relax his mind, allow the answer to clarify itself. It did.

_Those bruises on her wrists. Defensive marks. After she took time off to spend with _him

_No._

She'd explained that. She'd _laughed_ about it.

_It was nothing, she was teaching self-defense to a friend._ _She laughed._

But it hadn't been all that genuine a laugh, he remembered, and even as he tried to quash the idea, his mind was racing into investigative mode, assembling other memories, other evidence. Her withdrawal from him after that case. Those bruises. Her clothing- a turtleneck and pants on a warm night. She'd worn turtlenecks for a week.

The story of her childhood, told tearfully and incompletely. Her voice again, _"I thought it was the way that everybody lived..." _Children who grow up in abusive households often repeat the cycle in their adult lives, Grissom knew. _But I never thought that could include Sara._

More evidence:

Her voice, fierce and dedicated in defense of the Andersen woman. Her certainty that that stabbing had been self-defense. He had thought she was defending the spectre of her mother or even simply doing her job, but now… _"7.7 percent of U.S. women report having been raped…45.9 percent of women who reported physical abuse…7.7 percent…raped…physical abuse…She won't admit it but it's true…raped…"_ He could hear Sara's words in his head, and this time he was listening.

Grissom felt his heart turn to ice, hard and cold and burning with anger.

For the first time in his life, he genuinely wanted to commit murder.

He got into the car and started the engine, his exhaustion forgotten. He peeled out onto the road, and began driving angrily west, away from the morning sun. He didn't know where he was going- not home, not yet- but he knew he needed to think, and he needed to move.

As he drove, his mind continued to process, trying to find more evidence to support the hypothesis that his gut told him was correct. _My gut. Great, now I'm sounding like Jim._

And it hit him. Again. Jim, watching Sara laugh off the bruises, looking disturbed and protective. Jim, staring at that bloody bed, inviting Sara over for a movie. Pressing her. He had thought at the time that he was missing something, he knew he had, but he had been focused on the case, he hadn't been thinking about Jim Brass' social life.

_Jim knew. He knew and he did nothing._

Suddenly Grissom knew where he was driving to.

* * *

Brass' door rattled beneath his fists, and Grissom dimly realized that he was hurting his knuckles, but he pushed the thought aside, to be dealt with later. He'd been pounding on the door for two minutes. There was no response yet from within, but he had seen the car in the garage. Brass would just have to wake up, because Grissom wasn't going anywhere.

As he thought that, he heard the tumblers move in the lock, and the door swung open to reveal a sleepy James Brass.

"Gil? What's going on?"

"You know." Grissom didn't try to hide the rage in his voice.

"I know what?"

Jim blinked, waking up a bit more. "What happened? Is Sara alright?"

_He didn't try to deny it, didn't even have to think. Knew just what I was talking about._

Grissom hear the dull roar of blood in his ears, and realized he had somehow pinned Jim to his own wall.

"Is she okay?" Jim wasn't fighting him. Somehow that only fueled his anger. He slammed Jim back against the wall again, harder, and found that his forearm was across his friend's throat, not pressing yet, but threatening.

"Gil, calm down. Talk to me. What happened? Is Sara okay?" This time, Sara's name penetrated Grissom's brain, and he began to take stock of his surroundings. Brass was still pinned, still not trying to break free, and as angry as he was Grissom began to notice his rumpled hair, his undershirt, and the concern in his eyes. What was he doing? He let go and took a step back.

Brass took the opportunity to place his gun on the table in the hall. Grissom hadn't realized he was holding it.

"Do you always answer the door with your weapon?"

"Only when I think someone might break it down. What happened?"

"You tell me, Jim. You're the one who knows."

"I _don't _know. What happened last night? Why are you here now?"

"Tell me how you could know about a crime against _Sara_ and do nothing."

"She told you."

Grissom said nothing, hoping Brass would take his silence as confirmation. Pretend you already know what happened, and sometimes the subject will just tell you.

Brass was an old hand at interrogation, he knew that tactic. "She didn't tell you. How did you find out? Is she okay? He couldn't have come back."

"She said something, and I deduced the rest. Now _you_ need to tell me, and you'll want to be especially detailed when you get to the part where you covered up a crime." Grissom had a grip on his anger now, but it was on a very tight leash.

Brass studied him for a moment, and began to speak.

"One of the patrol officers called me. This was maybe two or three months ago. He'd had a domestic disturbance call, and he recognized Sara. He somehow knew we were friends, so he called me. I went right over, but she'd already cleaned up the whole apartment. She wouldn't talk to me unless I agreed to keep my mouth shut."

"And you _agreed_ to this?"

"Yeah, I did."

"He _raped_ her, Jim. I know he did. You just let that go? She wouldn't have needed to talk, that's what evidence is for."

"What evidence? She showered, she washed the sheets. Sara knows what she's doing. She's a big girl. She can make her own choices."

Brass paused for a moment before confessing, "The truth is… she didn't tell me that part. I didn't _deduce_ it until a few weeks later, and she still didn't confirm it."

"If you'd _done your job_, maybe-"

"Done my job? I was being a friend, Gil. You heard of that? It's something humans do? Friendship? People _caring _about other people?"

"I care about people." His hands were clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms.

"Oh, that's right. You care so much about Sara it only took you three months to notice anything was wrong. Dr. Grissom, Ph.D. and a genius IQ, and you buy her stupid little cover story without a second thought. She cracked her ribs and you had her stooping all over crime scenes and you never even noticed.

"You don't pay enough attention to the living, Gil. You never will. Don't second-guess my decisions. I was there. She needed to talk. She needed someone to just fucking be _there_ for her. Where were you?"

_Where was I? I was at work, stewing over Sara's big date weekend. _Grissom was feeling guilty now, and it only made him angrier, but he wasn't turning all of that anger onto Brass anymore. He'd found a better target: himself. His head was aching. _He cracked her ribs? And I didn't notice any of this? _

Still, Jim had made a mistake, hadn't he? Just letting it go like that? The system was there for a reason. How could Jim work for the justice system and refuse to let it do its job? How could he put Sara at risk like that? _And I _am_ Sara's friend. I care about her. I'm there for her. I just didn't know I needed to be, this time. I'm not psychic._

Energized by that though, he snarled, "I'm still waiting for you to explain why you'd put Sara at risk. If you'd booked him, or gone to a judge, she could have a restraining order."

"Those don't work. We see it all the time. Anyway, I took care of it," Jim said, satisfaction evident in his voice. Grissom frowned. _What did he do?_

"Don't worry, I didn't put out a hit or anything."

"I wasn't worried."

"I got on the computer, checked records for Sara Sidle in California. A lot of those as a CSI, but she was only listed as a victim on one, and that gave me his name."

"Tim." _She knew him in California? This happened before? Why don't I know this?_

"She told you? She wouldn't give him up to me, I think she was buying him time to leave town. Yeah, Tim Connolly, born in San Francisco, currently residing in Los Angeles. He has a bit of a sheet there- a Drunk and Disorderly and a DUI. Got probation for the DUI, and agreed to go to treatment.

"After I tracked him down, I called a friend of mine on the LAPD, and she had some of her guys give him a little special attention. Figured that way I'd know he was still in L.A., and maybe they'd catch him on another DUI, get him some jail time. Sara said he was sober, but then Sara thought he was gentle. She needs to raise her standards."

Grissom had been cooling down, but he was sure that last sentence was aimed at him, and he glared at Brass, who took no notice.

"Sure enough, he got arrested for a DUI about 6 weeks ago. Turns out he's got some pull, does research at UCLA with a lot of government grants, something to do with the space program. Anyway, they didn't want him in jail but I guess they don't want spaceships designed by drunks either. He got probation again, but he's enrolled at some inpatient treatment place. Won't be able to bother Sara for a while."

"He is a rocket scientist?" _I thought she was kidding._

"There are a lot of stupid smart people, Gil. Now you know everything, tell me what happened tonight."

"Did he hurt her?" _Does Jim know she was pregnant? I shouldn't say anything if he doesn't._

"What have we been talking about? What do you think?"

"I meant… you said her ribs were cracked."

"You saw her the next night, Gil."

"I didn't notice."

Jim sighed. "He hurt her. If it wasn't Sara you wouldn't think it was too bad. You saw her, and you didn't notice. She had bruises on her throat, and I'm pretty sure she had a broken rib, but she never got it checked out. Tell me about tonight."

"What makes you think there's anything to tell?"

"I am a detective. You don't usually come here and assault me over breakfast, Gil. And Sara wouldn't have said anything to you if it was nothing- she was dead set against you ever knowing anything about it. Someone would have called me by now if she was hurt on the job, so it's something else." _Why would someone call _Jim_ if Sara was hurt? I'm her supervisor. Why didn't that patrol cop call _me? _And I didn't assault him…well, not really._

"I'm sorry I pushed you. Sara didn't tell me, really. We had an argument, and she said something, and it got me thinking." _There. All true._

"And now you're going to apologize?"

"I said I was sorry for pushing you. I am, Jim. I didn't mean to lose it like that."

"I meant you should apologize to Sara for whatever you did. And you should never do it again. I'm protective." _Oh. Right, he thinks I did something to hurt her. Great. Now I'm the bad guy._

"I noticed. I'll make things right with Sara." _Somehow._

"Good. Go do it. I need my beauty sleep."


	12. Bad Timing

A/N: A huge thank you to Rouch for the excellent emergency beta job!

­

Grissom sat in his car outside Sara's apartment, paralyzed by doubt. 

He'd driven back to her place in a maelstrom of emotion. Anger, worry, and guilt swirled in his head endlessly, and he knew he needed to see her, to talk to her, to hold her. _But she kicked me out._ In his self-righteous anger at Brass, he had not allowed himself to dwell on that little detail. About the moment she had compared him to her abuser, her rapist. The moment she had told him he was not good enough.

The engine ticked softly, cooling itself, and still Grissom sat, immobile.

_How can she think I would ever hurt her? Why was she so angry? I was only trying to comfort her. How can she think I am anything like that scum?_

_I am _nothing_ like him. Nothing._ Grissom was indignant, offended.

_I have never harmed a woman. I never will. How can she imply that I've hurt her? I've done everything I could to protect her, from the world and from me. Everything I have ever done to her has been to keep her from harm._ Grissom was on a roll now, and it was easy to ignore the small mental voice which quietly pointed out that that was not entirely true.

_I hold myself back all the time to protect her. I turned her down for dinner- does she know how hard that was? No. She doesn't know anything about me. I put my job on the line to protect her from Ecklie. I do everything I can to protect her reputation. Does she realize how quickly people would assume she'd slept her way to her job? Does she realize how often I've wanted to touch her? But no, I always hold back, because I am not an asshole and I don't want to hurt her. _The tiny dissenting voice was completely silent now. _Not good enough? And why was she so angry, anyway? What gives her the right? I have spent the whole night worrying about her, trying to be there for her, and that makes her angry? _

_The hell with this._

Grissom's anger broke through his indecision, and he stormed into Sara's building.

She didn't answer the door. He knocked again, louder. Still no response. _Well, she can't just ignore me,_ he decided. He tried the knob. The door was unlocked. _What? Is she stupid? How can she not lock her door? Does she pay any attention at all to the cases we see?_

The living room was empty. Sara's bedroom door was closed. He opened it. She was curled into her pillow, crying.

She looked at him. "Grissom? How did you get in?"

"How did I get in? You left your door unlocked. What were you thinking? Don't you know how dangerous that is? _Anyone_ could get in. That asshole ex of yours could walk right in."

"Brass… he _told_ you?"

"_You _told me. What the hell were you thinking, Sara? I've never thought of you as a hypocrite before. And you _lied to me._ How could you just lie to me like that?" Grissom was shouting, his voice filling the dark, quiet apartment.

"Calm down." Sara's voice was hoarse from crying, and her eyes tracked his hands as he gestured.

"_Calm down?_ I'm calm. Why wouldn't I be calm? I was completely calm the whole time you were seeing that guy. I was _happy_ for you. And now I find out he was hurting you and you _lied_ to me about it? Sara-"

"It's my life, Grissom. And it's none of your business," she said harshly.

"None of my business. Sara, I love you. It's my business." _Did I just say that? Did I just say that? Is it even true? I don't even know if I meant that. _

Sara was crying again, and her face was white. She spat, "What, were you going to rescue me? Be my knight in shining armor? Grow up, Grissom, I can take care of myself. You _love_ me. What bullshit. What is wrong with you? I can't talk about this now. Why are you doing this to me?"

"Why am I _doing_ this to you? I love you." _I do. I really do._ Grissom was awed to realize it was true. He had spoken in anger, without thought, but he had meant it.

"Is this fun for you? Do you like to torture me? You've been pushing me away and reeling me in for years, and _now_ you decide you love me. _Now?_ It's too late, Grissom. Your timing is horrible."

_Too late. _Her words shocked him. He looked at her. She was still curled on the bed, crying hard. Her face was pale and blotchy. He could see a bruise forming on her forearm from the IV. She looked tired. Grissom suddenly felt as though he was seeing Sara for the first time. Not the idealized Sara in his head, but this flesh and blood woman, sitting on her bed, hurting and defeated and strong and determined all at the same time.

He watched her for a moment in wonderment. She looked…nervous. She wasn't looking at his face, but at his hands. He realized he was standing over her on the bed. He realized Sara was afraid of him.

_What am I doing? She's right. I couldn't have chosen a worse time. She lost a child tonight and I'm throwing a tantrum at her. What is wrong with me?_

He sat on the bed opposite her, and was relieved to see her relax a little.

"Sara, I'm sorry."

"Please go," she said softly.

_No. I can't leave it like this. She needs me, whether she admits it or not. And she's sick- someone should take care of her. I should take care of her._

"I can't." He kept his voice gentle, hoping to soothe her.

"Why not?" She sounded resigned.

_Because I love you. _"I won't say it again if you don't want me to. I'm going to stay for a while, and… make you some tea."

Sara didn't argue. It should have been a relief, but a compliant Sara was a frightening thing. She nodded. "There's some whiskey in the cabinet above the fridge. I'd rather have that."

"Is that a good idea?"

"Why not? It's not as if it will hurt the baby." Sara's voice was jagged.

"I didn't mean that. I don't know what drugs they gave you, or how much blood you've lost." He tried not to sound defensive.

"I need a drink."

Grissom nodded, resigned, and went to the kitchen. The whiskey bottle was a large one, but half empty and a little dusty. He found two glasses and poured a couple fingers into each of them, carrying them carefully back to the bedroom.

"You didn't want to bring the bottle?"

"Would you like me to go and get it?"

"Maybe later."

He handed her a glass, watched her shudder a little as she took the first sip. She lowered the glass, and he watched the liquid tremble. Her hands were shaking. She was sitting on top of the comforter, so he looked around the bedroom and spotted an afghan folded over a chair. He took it and wrapped it around her shoulders. She let him. She took another sip. He took one too, and sat down on the bed. They sat side by side, silently.

After a minute Grissom began to get nervous again. Should he be saying something? He didn't know what to say that wouldn't anger her. Should he hug her? But that had set her off before. _You idiot, Gil. She's been through a lot tonight. She's entitled to be on edge._ That realization didn't help. He was back to where he had been the last time he had been with Sara, wanting to help but not knowing how.

_Well, some things are different. She isn't yelling at me. She knows I love her. I still can't believe I said that. She's giving me a chance, here. I'll just have to make sure and take it slow this time._

"Sara." She looked at him.

"Is there anything you need? Right now?"

She smiled sadly and shook her head no.

He reached out, slowly, and took her free hand. She didn't pull away. He was grateful.

She took a large gulp of the whiskey. He sipped his. Outside the window, a siren blared. Grissom hoped he wouldn't be called in. The siren faded away, and the morning was quiet again.

A tear rolled down slowly down Sara's cheek. She set her glass on the bedside table and wiped it away with the back of her hand. She tugged at the afghan, rearranging it.

Grissom leaned past her and set his own glass down. He pulled the blanket tighter around Sara's broad thin shoulders. She leaned into his chest, and he released her hand and wrapped his arms around her. He rested his chin on the top of her bowed head.

She spoke into his neck, "I'm calling in sick tonight."

He almost laughed. "You're calling in sick for a few nights, honey. The doctor said you shouldn't do anything strenuous."

"You could ground me in the lab."

"Do you want that?"

"No. I need some time off."

"Sara Sidle, admitting she needs time off? I thought I'd have to fight to keep you out of the field."

She pulled back, and Grissom's heart sank. Had he said something wrong? But she smiled a little, and sniffed, and picked up her glass.

"Not this time." She inched back, resting her head against the headboard of the bed. She drained the glass, and handed it to him. "Would you get me a refill?"

He took it and returned to the kitchen. He had left the bottle on the counter. He poured again, the same amount as before, and returned to the bedroom. Sara was still leaning back against the headboard, her knees up and together, and one hand on her stomach.

"Does it hurt?" He handed her the glass.

"Yes." The word spoke volumes. Grissom focused on her physical needs.

"Where do you keep your Advil?"

"I don't need any."

Sara was on the right hand side of the bed. Grissom removed his shoes and sat on the left, beside her. He wondered if she slept on the right, or if she just happened to be sitting there.

They sat and drank without speaking. Grissom felt his body begin to feel warm and relaxed. He hoped the second glass would relax Sara, too. She needed to sleep. Her sheets were soft and cool. A bird chirped outside. Grissom's eyes slowly drifted shut.


	13. Too Late

Grissom opened his eyes, confused. He was on an unfamiliar bed, alone and fully clothed, with daylight pouring through the window. There were photographs on the walls, like in Sara's apartment… _oh._

He remembered now, all too well- everything from Sara's terrified face on the way to the hospital to telling her he loved her this morning. _Telling her? More like flinging it at her like an insult. You could have planned that one better, Gil. Where is Sara? How long was I asleep?_

Grissom got up and went into the living room. Sara was sitting on the couch. She'd refilled her glass. On the coffee table lay a copy of _What to Expect When You're Expecting_ and a spiral-bound copy of _Entomology and Death, a Procedural Guide._

"Did you sleep at all?"

"No."

Grissom picked up the pregnancy book and walked to the kitchen. He shoved it into the same drawer he had stashed the cookbook in, and filled himself a glass of water.

"I smoked," Sara said, "before I knew I was pregnant. And I drank."

He watched her from the kitchen. She looked calm, maybe a little drunk.

"I doubt it mattered. First trimester miscarriages are usually caused by chromosomal abnormalities." He was matter of fact, trying to match her abstracted tone.

"I didn't eat right. I drank coffee. I tried, after I found out, but I wasn't perfect."

"It's not your fault, Sara." She didn't look convinced.

"I almost got an abortion." She glanced at him quickly, as if to see how he would take this news.

"It would be understandable. And you didn't do it."

"But I thought about it. Maybe she knew she wasn't wanted." _She? Oh, Sara._

He tried to project certainty. "It doesn't work like that. This was not your fault."

Sara looked at her glass. She drained it, and walked to the kitchen. She pulled out the bottle and poured another. The bottle was nearly empty. She sat in the chair. _Is she making sure I can't sit too close?_ Grissom wondered. He took his glass of water and sat on the couch. Sara didn't say anything.

He picked up the Entomology book and began to flip through it. It wasn't the text he had given her, and he couldn't help but feel pleased that she had taken an interest on her own.

"He raped me."

Grissom froze. He wanted to say something. He wanted to hold her. He knew, though, that he had to remain perfectly still. The book lay forgotten in his lap.

"We were fighting. I asked him to leave and he just… snapped. And then, then… He didn't use a condom. I should have called my doctor or gone to the hospital, gotten the morning after pill, but I just wanted to forget the whole thing. Pretend it hadn't happened. I was on the pill. And the cops came, and then when they left I just wanted it not to have happened. I loved him, and he… I didn't want it to have happened." Sara was speaking quickly now, her words a little slurred.

"I didn't realize I was pregnant for a long time, not until that day at the morgue. And at first it felt like a bad dream. I just kept waiting to wake up, and when I didn't I was so angry, and I didn't want it. It. Her. I think it would have been a girl. I wanted her to be an it, so I could just… get rid of it.

"I'm pro-choice, you know, but I, I didn't think I would actually ever get one, I'm not a teenager. And I told myself it was okay, I never wanted to be a mother. I don't know how, and I'd be on my own, and if Tim ever found out he'd… And I didn't want to see him when I looked at my child."

She was quiet. Grissom waited. She glanced at him.

"But you changed your mind," he said.

She nodded. "I, I had this dream. And then I couldn't get the abortion. I thought maybe it was just meant to be. I was still ambivalent though. I was going to have it, but I couldn't make myself want it."

He swallowed. "What you felt was normal. It didn't affect the baby. There is no evidence to support that. You did everything right. It just… happens sometimes. I'm sorry."

Sara sipped her drink.

Grissom wanted to talk about Tim, but he worried she would be angry if he mentioned him. _Still, she brought it up._

"Do you want to try to bring charges against him?"

"No." She was firm.

"Are you sure, Sara? He shouldn't just get away with it." He carefully kept the frustration out of his voice.

"No."

"He could do it again, to someone else."

"He's not a serial rapist, Grissom. He did it because he thinks he loves me."

"That isn't love."

"Thanks for clearing that up." _Well, at least she can be sarcastic._

"I talked to Brass this morning," he offered.

"I figured."

"He said you'd filed charges against this guy before, in California?"

"Before I knew you." Grissom was oddly relieved by that. Before Vegas most of their friendship had been long distance, but he wanted to think she would have told him about this. Of course, she hadn't told him this time.

"Why…"

"I have to work here. In law enforcement. With the D.A.s and the judges. I don't want some defense attorney bringing this up on the stand and calling my objectivity into question."

"That's a stupid reason." _And I bet it isn't the real one._ "I wasn't going to ask that, anyway. Why did you take him back?"

Sara took another drink. She tapped her foot.

"I was homesick, I guess."

"And now?" Grissom tensed, waiting for her answer. _She won't press charges. Does she still care about this creep?_

"I still am, I think. But not for him. I miss the ocean." _What does the ocean have to do with this?_

"I miss it too, sometimes. But the desert has its beauty."

"It isn't home." She took a drink.

"I don't want you to leave."

"It doesn't matter, Grissom." She sounded tired. _What doesn't matter? It doesn't matter how you feel or it doesn't matter what I want?_

"If you're planning to leave, I need to know that."

"Are you here as my boss?" _Oops. She's right, that wasn't fair._

"No. I'm not here as your boss."

"I'm not planning on quitting. I'm going to go see the ocean now, with my sick days."

"You should be resting."

"I'm not asking permission. I can't work, I wouldn't be able to concentrate, and I don't want to sit here. I need to go, and it would be a like a funeral for her." Sara stared at the glass in her hand, swirled it a little, and took a sip.

_I don't want her to sit here either. She'd just drink. But I can't go with her._

"I can't go with you."

"You aren't invited." _Oh._

"When are you going?"

"Tonight. I'll drive. I like road trips."

"Sara… you've been drinking. And you need to sleep."

"You're not my mother." He looked at her, knowing if he waited she'd regret snapping and consider his words.

She did. "I'm not going right this minute. I'll sleep and sober up, and go tonight."

"You're going to drive to San Francisco tonight?" _That's a long drive. She should be recovering._

"No. I don't need to go all the way to San Francisco. I just need the ocean. I'll go toward L.A." _Toward Tim Conolly._

"You need to follow up with your doctor."

"I will."

"It's important."

"I said I would do it, Grissom." She was irritated now. She took another large sip of her drink.

"I just… worry."

"You don't need to."

"I can't help it. I love you." _There. Still not very romantic, but at least I wasn't yelling._

"No, you don't." She sounded firm, and a little sleepy. The whiskey was definitely having an effect. _Not a bad thing, under the circumstances. It will help her sleep._

"I do."

"You're saying that now because you're tired and upset. Tomorrow you'll regret it. I can't play this game anymore. I won't. It's too late."

_Too late._

_No. I won't agree to that. And it isn't too late. I'm here, she's talking to me. She hasn't shut me out. It cannot be too late._

"I do love you. I won't regret saying it." _I won't._

"I don't want your pity. You don't love me. You don't have to do this. I'll be okay, you know. But it doesn't help to have you complicating our relationship."

"I don't pity you." _How can she think that?_

"You only express affection when you find out something horrible has happened. It's adrenaline and pity, and I don't want it." She took another sip.

"Adrenaline helped me say it. I'm not good at expressing that kind of thing. But I don't pity you, Sara. I admire you."

"There's nothing admirable about this, Grissom. It just happened, remember?" _Is she always this argumentative when she's drunk? _

"I admire you because no matter what has happened to you in the past- your family, this guy in L.A.- you're still willing to put your heart on the line and try again. I couldn't do that."

"Well, neither can I. Not anymore."

"You don't love me." Grissom's heart fluttered rapidly in his chest, waiting for her response.

"No. And it wouldn't matter if I did. I loved Tim, back in grad school. Love isn't enough. I'm done with men who hurt me." Grissom felt as though the ground had been yanked out from under him. _She doesn't love me. I shouldn't have pushed. She doesn't love me._

"I never meant to hurt you." _But I can't talk you into loving me. She doesn't love me. Oh God, why did I say I loved her? She doesn't love me. I can't stay here and face her. I have to get out of here. No, I can't just go. She's drunk. She's hurting. I need to take care of her. And so what if she doesn't love me? That's now. She doesn't even really know me, and she's upset. That's it. This is only temporary. I'll woo her. Somehow. But right now I need to get away. I can't look at her. _

"But you did. Griss, I'm going to bed now." _Thank God, I can get out of here. I've never felt so humiliated._ "That means you need to go. Thank you, for coming back, before. You've been a good friend." _Friend_, Grissom thought bitterly.

Sara was waiting for him to say something, he realized. "You'll call me? Let me know you got there safely? And when you'll be coming back?"

"If you want me to."

"I do." He stood up, and so did she, a little unsteadily. _She's a remarkably articulate drunk,_ he observed. He wondered what that meant- did she drink enough to perfect that skill, or was it natural? She couldn't have had anything to drink in a few weeks, because of the baby. So was her tolerance naturally high? Then why did she get the DUI? _A puzzle for the future,_ he told himself. But it worried him. _At least the worry is a distraction, _he thought. _She doesn't love me. I'm too late._

She walked him to the door.

"Lock it behind me," he said. She nodded. Before he could think twice, he reached out and tucked her hair behind her ear. Her eyes widened. He stepped outside, and waited in the hallway until he heard the locks engage.


	14. Roller Coaster

Grissom let himself into his condo, collecting his mail on the way in. He threw away the junk mail and set aside a new journal to read later. He took off his shoes. He took a bottle of water from the fridge. He did all this calmly, purposefully, giving each task his full attention. He did not allow himself to contrast his spartan condo with Sara's warm, cluttered apartment.

He went into the bathroom and brushed his teeth. He took off his clothing and climbed into his large, empty bed. _I love Sara. I admitted it. I told her I loved her, and I do. _He got up and shut the blinds. He lay back down. _She doesn't love me._

_I shouldn't have pushed her. She wouldn't have said that if I hadn't pushed her._

_But it would still have been true._

_Is it true? Look at it logically, Gil. She told me I was more than a boss to her. She told me she moved to Vegas for me. She told me she was attracted to me, essentially. She asked me out. _

_And she said it could be too late._

_And she said it _was_ too late._

He looked at his clock. Only 1 P.M. He had several hours before he was due to arrive at work, and he needed to sleep. He closed his eyes, and saw Sara, leaning over a microscope, a triumphant smile on her face. Sara, wrapping a blanket around him and handing him a thermos.

He opened his eyes. _This hurts._

_Oh, deep, Gil. 'This hurts.' Where are your quotations now?_

"_Nothing spoils the taste of peanut butter like unrequited love." Charlie Brown._

_Charlie Brown. _

_I like Charlie Brown. Fine, then. "To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will certainly be wrung and probably be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even an animal." C.S. Lewis. _

_Too late for that._

_Too late._

_Right._

_Enough quotes. They aren't helping. You gambled and lost, Gil._

Grissom grunted. This was unfair. For all his hesitation, for all his fear, he had never truly believed she would reject him out of hand. For so many years he had told himself it was impossible, that it would never work out. Better to nip it in the bud.Some unacknowledged part of himself, though, had never really resigned itself to the idea. Somewhere there was a vestige of romance, gleaned from too many old movies. He would declare his love for Sara and she would melt. All the barriers- his age, his hearing, their jobs- would fade away as if by magic. _Well, every fantasy has to die someday. That's why you never risked it before, isn't it? Didn't want to risk real rejection._

_A blow to the ego, isn't it?_

_Shut up. It isn't my ego that's hurting here._

_Oh, be honest, you liked it, didn't you? This beautiful woman, wanting you. Waiting for you to be ready for her. _

It was true, he had to acknowledge it. It had been flattering, knowing Sara wanted him. Believing that she wanted him, anyway. That she saw something in him that no one else could see. It was clear now that her crush had faded, as he had told himself it would. He had read more into chance remarks and tiny glances than was really there. He had gone out on a limb and she had cut it off. _And yes, that hurt my ego. But it isn't all that it hurt._

He should never have allowed himself to love her. He should never have admitted it, anyway, not even to himself. It was ridiculous- he was much older than her. She was beautiful, and brilliant. She could have her pick of men. He could lose his hearing again- the surgery had worked, but it wasn't a permanent guarantee. If it didn't work out, it would be awkward at work. If it did work out it would be awkward. _And now? Now that you've told her you loved her? She is your subordinate. This could be messy. _

Sara would be back in a few days. How would she respond to him? How would he respond to her? For a moment Grissom founding himself hoping Sara would extend her trip and stay away even longer, but no, the only thing worse than the prospect of facing Sara again was facing her absence. _She's leaving because she's in pain. If she stays away it will be because she can't cope. I need her to be okay. I need to see that smile._

With that thought, Grissom saw in his minds eye a thousand Saras smiling at him. _I need to see her smile again._

_But what if I've really lost her?_

Grissom gave up on sleep.

­­­

The line at the Sahara was short, and Grissom was grateful. Showing his pass to the attendant, he climbed into the front car. He had never needed a diversion so badly.

The attendant checked his harness, and then the coaster shot up the first hill. Grissom felt his heart begin to speed with exhilaration as he dropped down into the tunnel.

_Well, she said she didn't love you, but is that true? You read people for a living, Gil, so think about it. She feels something, and you know it. She said she couldn't put her heart on the line. Well, neither could you, until today. You still loved her. You know you did. _

The ride accelerated rapidly, throwing him back against the headrest.

_You couldn't take the risk, because she might reject you. Well, she has, and you're still here. You're breathing. It hurts, but you lived._

The coaster was ascending rapidly toward an apparent dead end. It stopped, and reversed direction. Grissom felt his stomach leap.

_I lived. When she comes back we can start over. _ _I have nothing to lose, now. _

With a smile, he exited the ride and got back in line.


	15. Fresh Start

Sara was coming back tonight.

She'd left a message on his office voicemail.

Grissom had listened to it as carefully as any ransom message, trying to gauge her mood, but it was brief and utterly businesslike, merely confirming that she would be reporting in at the start of shift.

He wondered if she'd intentionally called his office so that she wouldn't have to speak to him. It seemed likely: she'd called his home at night to say she'd arrived, and his office by day to say she was back. At least she knew his home number.

Grissom came in early and shuffled paperwork, trying to ignore the tingle at the base of his spine. It was ridiculous, he knew, he was no teenager, and Sara had only been gone for four days. He'd gone weeks without her since she had come to Vegas. He'd gone _years_ without seeing her when she lived in San Francisco.

It had been a long four days.

He sighed, and pulled out another case report.

A light tap on his doorframe startled him. His heart gave an embarrassing back flip as he looked up, expecting to see Sara hovering in the doorway. It was only Greg. Grissom couldn't avoid scowling.

"Yes, Greg? Aren't you early?" He knew he sounded irritated, and tried to hide it. None of this was Greg's fault, and he vaguely realized that the rookie had been bearing the brunt of Grissom's mood these last four days.

"I had to come in to do an interview on my string of B & Es. We got a confession."

"Great. Get me your report as soon as you can." Grissom turned back to the case report.

After a moment, a shadow fell across his desk. Greg again. What did the boy want now?

"Do you need something?"

"Yes. I need to know what's going on. Is Sara okay? Is she in trouble?" Greg sounded worried, and determined, as if he had had to steel himself before confronting Grissom. Grissom wondered what Greg thought he could have done to Sara. Why did everyone always seem to assume it was his fault? And why was Greg so nervous about asking him? Had he really been _that_ unapproachable?

Still, Sara's private life was her own. Greg didn't need to know anything about it. On the other hand, it would only make Sara's return more difficult if he peppered her with questions all night.

He fixed Greg with a steady this-is-none-of-your-business look, and said, "Sara is not in trouble. She was sick. She'll be back tonight."

Greg broke into a wide smile at that, and Grissom wondered how the younger man could reveal his feelings so easily to the world. Had he ever been as open? Would his life have been easier if he had? _Probably. But Sara is back tonight. It will be a fresh start._ He was nervous again.

Greg bounced out of the office and around the corner. As Grissom was about to return to his report, he heard Greg call "Sara! Welcome back!" in a delighted tone. He froze. She was early. He wasn't ready. _No, I am ready. Nothing to lose, remember?_ He pushed back his chair to go and greet her, but at that moment the phone rang.

"Grissom," he barked.

It was dispatch, notifying him of a hit and run scene downtown. He jotted down the location and thanked the woman, hanging up the phone. He rose, intending to find Sara, but now there was another tap on the doorframe.

This time it was Sara.

She smiled perkily at him, not quite making eye contact. "Hi, Grissom. What's on the menu tonight?"

"Sara. You look good." She did. It must have been sunny at the beach, because Sara had a lovely golden tan. Her smile was wide and bright, but he noticed that it did not quite meet her eyes, and despite her improved color, she looked frail. _Has she lost weight? How can you lose weight in four days?_ He forced the worry off his face and smiled at her.

"Thanks." She smiled a little wider.

"How are you doing?"

"Fine, thanks. So what do we have?" She was too cheerful to be believed, but Grissom didn't know how to lower her defenses, and it probably wouldn't be wise to do so just before sending her to a crime scene. He'd buried himself in work often enough to know what a salve it could be. _No, I have to start this right. No backing down or hiding behind the job. I have nothing to lose. _

"Shift hasn't started yet, and there's nothing that won't keep for a few minutes. Sit down." She did, looking wary. He would have to tread softly, he knew, but he wanted to establish a connection.

She was waiting nervously for him to speak, and he realized that for all his planning, he had no idea what to say. "How was the drive?" _There. Can't go wrong with that._

"The drive? Fine. Not much traffic."

"I wanted to thank you for calling. I was sorry to miss you, but I appreciated your letting me know you had arrived."

"You don't need to worry, Grissom. I'm fine." _Right to the point. I should have known._

"Are you sure you don't need more time? Warrick's been looking for overtime, he could cover for you."

"No, I'm fine." She bit her lip for a moment. "Thank you. For offering."

"Of course. How was the ocean?"

She sighed. "It helped." She hesitated, as if unsure whether to continue. Grissom cocked his head to the side encouragingly. _Come on, Sara, I'm not just being polite here, tell me something. Anything._ _Meet me partway here._

"It wasn't as good as I thought it would be. Maybe because it was Southern California. Maybe I should have gone to San Francisco after all." _Good, she's opening up a little. See? It is not too late. Just take it slow._

"Maybe. Then again, maybe it's true what they say. You can't go home again."

Sara frowned a little, and Grissom wondered if he had said the wrong thing.

"True enough. Do you have an assignment for me?" _Is she annoyed? No, just uncomfortable. Good, that makes two of us._

"I have a hit and run. You can have it if you want to solo. Do you want to jump right in, or hold out for something interesting? The night is young." He smiled, trying to seem relaxed. _How much of human interaction is faking ease where there is none? Why do we bother?_

"I'd like to just jump in. Thanks."

He nodded, and handed her the paper with the details. "If you need any help, call."

She nodded, smiling a little quizzically as she absorbed his offer. "Thanks, Grissom. I appreciate that." _Good. She knows I'm here for her, that's a start. But she'll never take me up on it. I can't let her hide behind work completely._

He nodded. "Welcome back. I missed you."

"Thanks. I…Thanks. I should get going." She smiled another wide false smile and was gone. Grissom let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding.

_That went well,_ he thought. He smiled as he turned back to his report. The phone rang.

"Grissom."

Dispatch again, and he had an ADW outside a strip club. Another busy night. He closed the report. He'd bring Greg, as an apology for his snappishness. Sanders liked strip clubs, didn't he?


	16. Frustration

Grissom was frustrated.

Sara had been back at work for over a week now, and he had barely spoken to her. She wasn't avoiding him- he could at least console himself with that- but it was as if there was something in the air in Vegas that week, with the opposite effect of Lithium in the water supply. Every idiot with the least criminal tendencies had been out robbing, raping, or killing.

He had assigned Greg to solo on no fewer than twelve trick rolls in the last ten days, not to mention two liquor store hold-ups. Sophia had been pulling double shifts to cover a convenience store robbery turned triple homicide, while Grissom struggled to find evidence to nail an exhibitionist turned rapist in the Shady Acres mobile home park.

He'd wanted to start Sara off with something slow, but even her hit-and-run had proven more complicated than he had anticipated. It turned out not to be random at all, but the work of a business partner who thought he had been cheated of profits.

Just after she wrapped that up, she had been loaned to swing shift. Grissom was worried about that: Sara and Catherine had maintained a forced peace since Sara's suspension, but it mainly consisted of each woman politely avoiding the other. Neither had apologized, and the last thing any of them needed was another blow-up.

Still, Swing was as busy as Graveyard these days, and Sara worked well with Warrick. The case involved allegations of sexual abuse at a large local day care. Despite his misgivings, Grissom had had to let Sara go.

_And what about not letting work get in the way this time? Whathappened tojust going for it?_

_I said I wouldn't hide behind work. I meant it. I can't change the fact that we're busy. This is not my fault._

Still, he was frustrated. This crime wave was a fact of life, unalterable. It was to blame for his inability to make further contact with Sara, not his own insecurity. He was trying: every day he made a point of checking in with her, asking about her case and trying to expand the conversation into more personal areas, but he was stymied. Sara wasn't rejecting him, but she was absorbed by her work, and if he was being honest, so was he. Neither had much time to chat.

Grissom sighed. He needed to let go of this for a while. He was by no means giving up on Sara, but work needed to come first tonight, and he wasn't concentrating properly. He headed for the break room, hoping Greg had left his special coffee in there again. He poured a cup, sniffed, sipped, and grimaced involuntarily. Greg had certainly not made this batch of coffee. In fact, it seemed to be left over from Day shift. He sighed again. There was a coffee shop just down the block from the lab. The walk would probably clear his head. Maybe Mia would have some useful results for him when he returned.

As he exited the lab, he was startled by a loud metallic crashing sound. He looked for the source of the sound, and was startled to realize it was Warrick, kicking the trash receptacle that stood to the right of the entrance. Sara was watching him, arms folded and a concerned look on her tired face.

"Warrick? Did the trash can do something wrong?"

"Grissom. Hey, man. No, it's just this case. We got nothing. I can't figure it out."

Grissom nodded sympathetically. It was always frustrating to reach a dead end, and cases concerning abused children were hard on everyone. No wonder Warrick was kicking the trash can.

"I'm going down to the coffee shop. The stuff in the break room is swill, and Greg's out on a case so we can't get more of the good stuff. Why don't you two come along, talk it out a little? It has to be more productive than standing out here damaging county property."

Warrick smiled and nodded ruefully, then glanced at Sara. She nodded, looking at Grissom curiously.

The three set off on foot down the street, not talking for the moment. Grissom realized how much he had missed this, this quiet camaraderie with the members of his old team. Outside the lab, he could pretend to himself that they had never been split up, that Warrick was still his. Well, he could almost pretend. It was a nice moment, and a painful one. Bittersweet. They arrived at the coffee shop too soon.

"My treat," said Grissom.

"No argument here," laughed Warrick. Sara smiled. She seemed distracted, and too quiet, and Grissom wished yet again that she would learn to distance herself more from her cases.

He and Warrick bought three cups of coffee and a cinnamon scone while Sara claimed a table. When they joined her they found her carefully constructing a little tower of Splenda packets. It was oddly child-like and wholly endearing. Grissom smiled to himself.

He passed Sara the scone along with her coffee.

"Thanks, Griss, but I'm not really hungry."

"Eat it, you like cinnamon, and I know you probably skipped dinner."

Sara furrowed her brow, confused, and Warrick smiled into his coffee cup. Sara took a small bite of the scone.

"So," he began, "What do you have?"

"Nothing," said Warrick.

Sara sipped her coffee. "Amanda Cope filed a complaint a few days ago. Her four-year-old's been acting out: hitting things, wetting the bed, clinging to her. She took him to the doctor for the bed-wetting- he'd stopped doing it already, and when he went back to it she was concerned because diabetes runs in the family. The doctor saw physical signs of abuse, and she and the mother questioned the child."

Grissom nodded. There was nothing too unusual so far, but it often helped to start at the beginning and present the case to an outsider.

Warrick picked up the story, saying wearily "The kid admitted that someone had been touching him inappropriately and doing things to him that he didn't like, and eventually he said it happened at daycare. The mom called the police, wanted them shut down right away. That's when we started investigating. Meanwhile, four other families have filed complaints. We can't find any evidence that anything happened at that daycare, and we've been over the whole place with a fine tooth comb."

"How detailed was the first kid's statement?"

Sara was stirring her coffee rapidly. Grissom wondered how many cups she had had before he made the offer. She followed his glance to her hand and set down the stirrer. "Not very detailed, but enough. He eventually identified Ben Waters, one of the day care workers, as the perp, but only to his mother. A psychologist has talked to him since, of course, but he isn't saying much. He's only four."

She anticipated his next question, continuing, "The other kids' statements are less clear. Waters touched them and they didn't like it, it happened at daycare in the back room. No physical signs of abuse on them, but that only means there was no penetration."

"Meanwhile," Warrick said angrily, "We've been over that place six times with the ALS, taken dozens of swabs. Nothing. They clean up pretty regularly though, with all those kids and dirty diapers and germs, so it's possible there just isn't any evidence. The thing is, no adult has ever noticed anything suspicious, and nothing seems out of place. It doesn't seem possible- the place is pretty safety conscious, lots of glass walls, every door has a window, there are always a few people working together. No one can swear Waters _wasn't_ ever alone with these kids, but there's no proof he was, either, and from the looks of things it would be hard for him to have the kind of time and privacy he'd need. He says he's clean, and I could almost believe it, but Griss, _someone_ hurt that kid. We've got samples processing now on all the daycare workers and all the male relatives of all the kids, but we don't have anything to compare them to."

"You remember the hysteria over satanic abuse? And the daycare witch hunt in Massachusetts?"

"Yeah," said Sara, setting down the scone, "And we've thought of that. It's possible nothing happened to the other four kids. The psychologist is working with them, too, but it's hard when they're so young. Kids are suggestible, but we can't just discount their stories. There's evidence the Cope boy _was_ abused, though. It happened. We just can't figure out where or who."

"Well, if you get the where, you might be able to find something that will get you the who. You can't find where or who at the daycare center, so have you found anywhere else that seems possible?"

"They were all at the same birthday party a month ago," said Warrick, "and three of them have the same pediatrician. Other than that, there've been a couple play dates, but not all five kids in one place."

"It wouldn't have to happen to all five at once, though," Sara remarked, "In fact, it's unlikely. The bastard would want to be alone with them." Her eyes were fierce, and Grissom found himself once again impressed with her passion on behalf of the victims.

"Look, set aside the other kids. You can come back to them later, if you don't turn up anything, but for now, why not just focus on the Cope kid?"

"The mom has a boyfriend," said Sara thoughtfully, "He volunteered his DNA, but we haven't searched his house. There's no evidence to suggest that he did it."

"It sounds like there's no evidence that Waters did it. The mother questioned the kid first, she'd lead him away from fingering the boyfriend without even realizing it."

Warrick and Sara were smiling now, twin smiles with no joy in them.

"Can we get a warrant?" Warrick mused, "We really don't have anything on him, and the kid ID'ed Waters."

"But the guy volunteered his DNA, maybe he'll let us look around. If we show up while the mother's there, he won't want to say no in front of her." Sara was excited now, her fatigue forgotten.

"Let's do it." Warrick stood. "Thanks, Griss. See you later." Grissom wistfully watched them go, leaving behind two empty coffee cups and a half-finished scone.


	17. Trust

Greg stared at the crime scene in horrified fascination. Grissom couldn't blame him: even to his experienced eye, this was a little weird.

A body of a middle-aged man lay sprawled on the stairs, an apparent victim of a savage beating. No murder weapon was in sight. The leather whip lying at the top of the stairs would not have been capable of this kind of devastation, but it did shed some light on the activities in the bedroom.

There, a woman hung from restraints against the wall. Her feet were fixed apart with a metal spreader, and her hands were cuffed above her head to two rings on the wall. She wore a leather hood, and nothing else. The whip had apparently been used on her: her body bore the evidence of several small welts, too apparently superficial to have been the cause of death.

"What _happened_ here?" Greg wondered aloud.

"Sara, would you like to call it?" Grissom asked.

Sara was examining the photographs on the bedside table. The pictures showed the dead couple in happier times, at their wedding, with a small girl, and again with the same child, teenage now. Grissom observed the unmistakable spark of grief in her eyes, and cursed himself for calling attention to her at a vulnerable moment.

"Do we know where the kid is?" Sara asked, her voice brisk and businesslike.

"According to Vega, boarding school in Virginia."

Sara nodded.

"Home invasion gone wrong? He's been dead longer than she has," Sara began thoughtfully, "and her welts had time to form and heal a little, from the looks of things. She has abrasions on her wrists from the handcuffs: signs of struggle." She looked at Greg, raising one brow.

He picked up the narrative tentatively. "So maybe they were getting it on in here, and the murderer interrupted." Greg glanced back to the doorway, as if trying to visualize the husband's path. "The perp killed the husband, and then… Just left her? To die of dehydration? That's…inhuman."

"Because tying up your wife and whipping her is so humane?" Sara's tone was sharp.

"Hey, there's no reason to think this wasn't consensual. Some people like it kinky. Spices things up, right?" Greg looked cheerful at the thought.

Grissom ignored this exchange and focused on the case. "The perp may have thought he was being merciful, Greg. He or she couldn't know no one would come in here for a few days. The woman couldn't ID him with that hood on. Maybe he was trying to spare her."

Greg nodded. Sara had replaced the family pictures. Now she was staring at the woman's body, her lips thinned.

"On the other hand," Grissom continued, "We have no way of knowing yet that this _was_ consensual. Those rings on the wall don't look recently installed, but that doesn't mean they weren't an intentional murder weapon. Let's be very thorough in our printing tonight. Greg, you start with the downstairs. Get the points of entry and check for signs of burglary down there. Print everything."

Greg nodded and departed.

"Sara, you're with me. Process those restraints so we can take her down and let David have her."

Sara nodded and moved toward the woman. Examining the handcuffs she remarked, "These are quality cuffs. Smith and Wesson, double locked. Fairly tight. She didn't have a chance." Her voice was tinged with horror, "Can you imagine being left to die of _thirst_ in your own bedroom?"

"She probably wasn't conscious for most of it, if it helps. They kept this bedroom pretty warm, and it's hard to maintain that position for long. She probably fainted fairly early on. She could even have asphyxiated, in that position. That's why it's not considered safe to leave a bound person unsupervised. Doc will be able to tell us more about what happened."

Sara didn't look cheered. She lifted some prints off the cuffs, and moved down to the spreader. "You, uh, seem to know a lot about it."

It was definitely a question.

"You never know what knowledge set will come in handy on a case." _Good answer, Gil._

"Well, maybe you can help me out here, because I don't understand people who get off on other people's pain."

It didn't seem to be an accusation.

"People can choose to do whatever they want in the confines of their own bedroom, as long as it doesn't hurt anyone else. Usually, though, it's more about the power than the pain."

"Are you, uh, are you… do you like this kind of thing?" Grissom could hear her jaws click as Sara's mouth snapped shut. She squeezed her eyes closed, obviously mortified. "Never mind. That was inappropriate. It's your business."

_But you feel comfortable enough to ask. _

Grissom paused before responding. He knew he would have to be very careful here: Sara was obviously uncomfortable with the idea, but he had to be truthful. She was watching him carefully as he formulated his thoughts, and he somehow knew this answer would be very important.

"'To be trusted is a greater compliment than to be loved'," he quoted in a calm voice. "I find trust very attractive, and it takes a great deal of trust to allow yourself to be helpless before your lover."

"It didn't work out well for _her_," Sara noted.

"It looks like he did his best to protect her," Grissom said. "Sometimes it just isn't possible."

Sara swallowed, and turned back to her kit, continuing the process the scene. Grissom watched for a moment, trying to read her mind through her posture. He could not.

* * *

A/N: Grissom's quote is by George Macdonald. I apologize for the slowness of this update. I'm bottom man on the totem pole right now when it comes to computer time. There are only a couple more chapters to come, so the whole story should be wrapped up by the end of the week. Oh, and while I am writing an author's note- a huge thank you to all those who have reviewed. You have made me incredibly happy, and I really appreciate your kind words. Keep in mind, though, I really don't mind if you criticize the story- I'd like to improve on the next one, and your feedback will help. 


	18. Vermin

"Hey, Gil, it's one of your little friends," Brass said, pointing to the cockroach as it scurried from the room.

Grissom restrained his eye roll. People always assume an entomologist is interested in every bug that crosses their path.

_Be honest. You are interested._

In this situation, though, a cockroach was not likely to be probative.

The house was a wreck. It looked like someone had initially intended to use the garbage can, which was lined with a trash bag and conveniently placed in a corner of the kitchen, but they had lacked the motivation to _empty_ the can. It looked like it held a years worth of rotting food and coffee grinds.

Grissom noted the orange peels, and was impressed that anyone who spent time in this house bothered to eat fruit.

The primary crime scene wasn't in the kitchen, but in the larger room just off of it. Grissom supposed it should be called a living room, and there was a couch there, looking like it had been rescued from the side of the road.

After a tornado.

"What a dump," he commented as he bagged a used syringe. "No wonder this place is condemned."

"Mmm," agreed Brass. He walked to the window and looked out through the broken pane.

Grissom rose, knees cracking, and deposited the bagged syringe in his kit. He bent again, noticing a fiber on the floorboards. In a place as dirty as this, it was impossible to know what was relevant. This fiber could be the case-breaker, or it could have been lying there for months.

He sighed. The victim hadn't been IDed yet, but it looked like a drug killing.

The perp probably hadn't been too careful about evidence, but from the looks of things a lot of people had used this derelict house recently, and they'd all left a trace. He'd been processing for hours, and his knees were aching.

He heard the soft creaking of the floorboards from a back room. He tensed, and glanced at Brass, who quietly drew his gun.

It was probably just a rat, but there were smashed windows in all the rooms. A lock had been placed on the door when the building was condemned, and the footprints he had found earlier indicated that the windows had been serving as entrances for humans as well as vermin.

The floorboard creaked again, and there was a thumping sound. If it was a rat, it was a large one.

Human sized.

Brass held his gun in both hands, but kept it aimed at the ground. He began to move toward the door. Grissom wondered if he should be providing back-up, but realistically there was little he could do. He had been called in from home, and his gun was at the lab.

The door opened, and a man crashed in. Grissom wondered how he had moved so silently through the house: he was swaying unsteadily in the doorway, the gun in his hand wavering.

"Th'hell is this? Who're you? I need Keanan, man."

"Drop the gun," said Brass, his own weapon now aimed at the filthy man in the doorway.

"I need my stuff, man, why you pointing that thing at me? Put it down, I jus' wanna talk to Keanan." He waved the gun a little as he spoke, his finger resting on the trigger.

The intruder's eyes were bright. They darted around the, unable to settle on anything. Grissom wondered what exactly he was on, and decided that it didn't really matter: the effects were obvious enough, and they didn't bode well. The man could pull the trigger at any time.

"Put the gun down," Brass repeated. Grissom wondered how Brass could sound so calm.

His heart was pounding and he tried to remain as still as possible, wishing himself invisible. The man steadied the gun a little, aiming it toward Grissom.

_This guy is high as a kite. He's going to shoot without even meaning to. This idiot kid is going to kill me by accident._

It was a black automatic, and Grissom found his eyes glued to it. The matte black seemed to absorb all the light in the room.

_This is why witnesses are so useless. They only remember the weapon. Look at his face, Gil._

But he couldn't take his eyes off the gun.

Grissom felt tiny droplets of sweat forming at his hairline and on the back of his neck. If he died tonight, he'd have curly hair for his autopsy.

"What? Shit, back off. I just want my stuff, I gotta right, you can't stop this shit. I got friends, pig. I got people I can _call_."

'_But will they come when you do call for them?'_ thought Grissom irrationally.

"Put. It. Down." Brass' voice was hard and soothing at the same time. If Grissom had had a gun, he would have put it down.

"I got friends, you faggot. You can't talk to me like that." But as he was insulting Brass, he was lowering the gun.

In seconds Brass had him on the floor with his hands cuffed behind his back. Grissom radioed for backup.

Keeping his eyes and gun trained on the junkie, Brass spoke.

"Where was your gun?" His voice was stern and humourless.

"At the lab."

Brass was silent.

"It won't happen again. I'm sorry."

Brass didn't reply.

Grissom felt a rush of shame. Why hadn't he brought the gun? Would he have been any use if he had had it?

A uniformed officer came in and took charge of the cuffed man, effectively ending the conversation.

Grissom finished working the scene in silence.

* * *

A/N: Grissom is quoting Shakespeare, from Henry IV, Part I. Thanks to all who have reviewed. One chapter to go, and barring computer trouble it should be up tonight. 


	19. Home

Grissom greeted Judy with a smile as he returned to the lab and collected his messages.

He logged in the evidence, and distributed it to DNA and Trace. He returned some of the more urgent phone calls. He checked in with Hodges, who hadn't dealt with his stuff yet.

Grissom found himself looking for Sara, but of course she was still out in Henderson with Greg.

His pager vibrated: Doc Robbins. _Time for my autopsy._

He shuddered involuntarily, and corrected his own thought. _Time to observe the victim's autopsy._

He passed Catherine on his way to the morgue. She smiled and greeted him. He nodded in acknowledgement and continued toward the elevator.

"Hey, you can't say hi to me?" she asked.

Dutifully, he stopped. "Hello. I was just on my way to an autopsy." He started to walk again.

"I heard you and Brass had a close call today," she said questioningly. She turned and followed him a few steps back down the hall.

_How did she hear that already?_

"Indeed." He arrived at the elevator and pushed the button.

"You okay?" She looked genuinely concerned, and he was confused. Nothing had happened, after all. They were all okay.

"I'm fine," he said. The elevator doors opened, and he stepped in. Catherine gave him a knowing smile and walked away. He wondered what she thought she knew.

The autopsy didn't reveal any surprises. The victim was a black male in his twenties, with a prison tattoo and track marks on his arms. Doc Robbins took blood and hair samples for a tox screen.

Cause of death, as had seemed obvious, was a gunshot wound to the chest. The bullet was a nine millimeter. It could be a match to the gun Brass had taken from the suspect.

Grissom fingerprinted the man and collected the bullet, and returned to the lab.

He gave the bullet to Archie in Ballistics, dropped the prints off with Jaqui, and returned to his office. He sat down. Shift was almost over: he wouldn't get much more done on this tonight, but there was always paperwork.

He read through Sofia's latest case report, and signed off on it. He stood, stretching his back, and walked over to his tarantula's cage. He removed the spider and placed it on his palm, allowing the little creature to walk from one hand to another. It was soothing, as always.

His pager buzzed again. Archie, this time. He put the spider back in it's cage and headed to ballistics.

The bullet did not match the junkie's gun. He thanked Archie, who promised to let him know if he got a hit through IBIS.

Jaqui had had better luck. The victim turned out to be Keanan Arthur, 25. He had a previous conviction for possession with intent.

Grissom thanked Jaqui, and glanced at his watch. Shift was over. Sara and Greg hadn't reappeared.

He considered calling Brass, paying a visit to some of Arthur's known associates, but decided against it. That could wait until the afternoon, at least, when more of the evidence had been processed.

He returned to his office and dropped the ballistics report onto his desk. He put on his coat and turned out the light.

The drive home was slow: Vegas was a 24 hour town, but the population still flowed in regular rhythms. The city had its rush hour, and he was caught in it. He reminded himself to be patient, and inched his way back to his townhouse.

Once inside, he turned on the light and helped himself to a bottle of water. He turned on _Goldberg's Variations_ and settled on the couch, determined to lose himself in the piano.

It didn't work. His hand was shaking as he lifted the water to his lips. No, not just his hand: his whole body was shaking with a slight but determined tremor.

_Just a delayed reaction. Everyone reacts to stressful situations._

_He could have shot Brass. He could have shot me. I didn't even bring my gun to the scene._

The shaking intensified.

_It would have been so pointless._

Grissom closed his eyes and hunched forward on the couch, bowing his head.

_Just wait. It will pass. Focus on the music._

His stomach churned. Eating would probably help to reduce the acid, but Grissom wasn't hungry. He sat and listened to the music and tried not to think of that wild, waving gun.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed when he heard the knock at his door.

It was a tentative sound, and he thought at first that he had imagined it. He opened his eyes and straightened. He'd dented the plastic of his water bottle with his grip. He took a drink. The water was warm. He set it down, not bothering with a coaster.

The knock came again, slightly louder, and definitely real.

Grissom opened the door.

Sara looked surprised to see him, as if he was the unexpected guest instead of the other way around.

She opened her mouth and shut it, and he wondered tiredly what speech she had prepared to explain this visit, and what her real motive was.

"Griss, you're shaking!" She looked concerned. He was embarrassed, and unsure of what to say: that it was cold in here, maybe?

"I'm fine." There, that was true.

Sara was still looking worried. She had apparently forgotten her original greeting altogether. She raised a hand toward him, hesitated, and laid it on his cheek. Her hands were cool and soft, and smelled of lotion. Her fingers moved back curving as they brushed through the hair above his ear. Grissom felt his breath catch in his throat. The shaking only intensified.

"Are you going to invite me in?"

_Isn't that what I've been trying to do?_

"Come in," he said.

She did, looking around a little nervously. Her ID was still clipped to her pants, and he realized she'd come straight from the lab.

"Hodges said someone shot at you," she said.

"No one shot at us. A man entered the scene with a gun. Brass told him to drop it, and he did."

Sara was watching his face, clearly unsure whether to believe this account.

"You know lab gossip," she said with a little smile.

Grissom nodded. He needed to sit down. His limbs felt loose and rickety and his stomach was swirling. He felt feverish, only without the fever. He didn't want Sara to see him like this, but he hadn't been expecting her, hadn't had time to process this experience and file it away.

Sara reached out and touched his arm at the shoulder. She rubbed it slightly, as if to warm him, and he was surprised to find that it helped: he did feel a bit steadier.

Grissom glanced at the couch. He still needed to sit, but he couldn't move, and he certainly couldn't pull away from Sara's light touch.

Her hand stopped its motion then, and for once he could read her thoughts with ease. She thought he wanted to pull away. She was embarrassed to have reached out. He swallowed, gathering his thoughts.

She dropped her hand. "I just came by to see if I could borrow your copy of _Forensic Science Communications_. They, uh, have an article I wanted, about human scent."

_Sara, that's the lamest excuse I have ever heard._

She seemed to read his mind, because she flushed and shifted her weight to her right hip.

He smiled. "You can borrow it. Would you like a drink?"

"Water?" she asked.

He got her a bottle from the fridge, pouring it into a glass and adding a couple ice cubes. He hoped she didn't notice the experiments that shared space with his food. If she did, she didn't say anything, but he could feel her eyes on him as he poured. He handed her the glass.

"Thanks." She flashed him a quick smile. Grissom leaned against the counter, trying to hide his weakness.

Sara looked as though she might touch him again, but instead she held the glass carefully, with both hands. "I should really get going," she said.

"I'll get you the journal." But he didn't move. He couldn't. He wouldn't have been surprised to look down and discover that his legs had detached at the knee.

Sara watched him. She chewed on her lower lip a little.

_Go on, Gil, get her the journal. _He stayed where he was, leaning on his kitchen counter and hoping she would go. Or stay. He wasn't sure.

Sara set the glass on the counter. As she did, the back of her right hand brushed lightly against the back of his left. She paused there, maintaining a contact so slight Grissom wasn't sure he wasn't imagining it altogether.

"Grissom. I'm glad you're okay," she said softly.

It was encouragement enough. Grissom removed his right hand from the counter, and reached slowly toward Sara's cheek. She turned, and leaned in, wrapping her arms around him and holding. He hugged her back, leaning on her now instead of the counter.

He spoke into her hair. "Sara?"

"Yeah?"

"Why did you come?"

She tensed in his arms. He wished he hadn't spoken, but knew he had to see this through.

"Because," she said.

"Because?"

"Do you need to ask?" Her back was hardening now, and he kept his embrace firm.

"Yes."

"You could have been killed. You could have been killed and I… I needed to make sure you were okay."

_Well, what did you expect, a grand declaration? She cares. She's here, isn't she? Be happy with that._

But Sara tensed further. He could feel her chest expand as she filled her lungs. "I love you."

She looked up at him, her eyes fearful.

He smiled, warmth spreading through his body. "I love you too."

He felt her relief as the tension drained from her back, and he pulled her closer, savoring the feel of her cheek against his own, her arms around his chest. Her scent, soap and violets and a trace of salt. She smelled like home.

The End.


End file.
